the wide circle echoes this shapeless canyon within.
Every edge wobbling on an uncertain curve;
slipping feet into an approaching dusk.
Placed in a tired hue. The colors have been overused, it seems.
Simple water is needed to wash away the marks.
Plain but beautiful,
this weight sits in my chest. I can't determine what it is; this strange age prevents understanding.
Undulating between melancholy and awakening,
is it waiting to erupt into something new?
Or am I simply imagining, like so many other bubbles,
filmy feeble iridescence,
foam that quickly dissipates into gasping mermaid breath;
and my thoughts churn just as uneasily, in similar Ariel desperation
to become something I am not.
these things are too easily lost and impossible to claim.
Return to a black-and-white morning,
where silver spoons spell out the moon, cereal flakes the only comets, star chunk oats, and Milky Way liquid rippling.
All remains untouched.
Empty, again and again, I find myself. Standing at the edge, waiting for You to come.
I don't know, those inexpressible feelings again.