super happy group justwrite

Cloudless skies fill your sad eyes like the steam from my tea fogging my glasses an a message on the mirror after you shower, fingerprints like the dampness of morning, dew like lace on your lips. I leave the spiderwebs in the corners of my room because home is so dusty I can't see my reflection. I form shapes out of fog, people with four legs and no ears, and I know I can't watch them walk away, which is really floating because footprints I can follow feel like you're still near me. The wind is your heartbeat, so I walk backwards through snow until I lose myself and wonder how many hours I spent thinking about myself and how little I truly know about myself, except in those moments when the flies are daydreaming, fat and lazy on the empty picnic table, and I think of photographs bent at the corner and six faces looking in slightly different directions. The grass is like ice today. Your eyes are like ice today. The clouds flew from them and finally found the sky that wants to be the ground that wants to be the sky and the horizon in between in just happy, and I look at you and see happy. My sunset melts into your moonrise, and the stars are jealous of this recipe, cutting skin with the sharp edges of their light, then blocked from view by mist so thick my grandmother would call it soup and I wish it's warm soup that will fill her bones with summer air or smokey firewood but there's too much dust blocking her doorway.