Pura Vida justwrite

Roadside mimes while pure life is pulsing in my neck like an engine and wheels unsteady against the runway, the skin on my stomach, birds nesting in my hair while the Earth gapes at me from the edge of the street, metal becoming sand but only to empty eyes at a three in the morning that is one elsewhere, forgetting the gestures and being glad you bubblewrapped your lamp post because holding that position for that long seems like pain, like resting tired cheeks on garbage bags feels like relief, like a bite of bread and cheese mingling for seventeen minutes, wondering where two went and settling with pass as the doors clamp around our ankles and the men outside wipe each others' blood from their faces, like I did this morning with my own, water tasting like pennies and alarming on the silence only street. Kayla's hair is like a halo in the right light, and there is a face here more beautiful than a fountain with a much less intense mustache and a woman so short she is like a bird, with hollow bones and a song in her throat. The man in the corner burns maps off his hands, whispering that he's sorry and blowing a kiss that blows the ash away from the lips of a volcano, trying so hard to scream that everyone turns the other way, runs, whenever she gurgles a sound. Tomorrow there are seven places at once and a living history, but now there is rice setting early on the horizon and eyes closed at home, nodding to themselves as the night dawns.