April 18, 2012 at 9:09pm
[you're always the first to say
the light you seek isn't there anymore.
your friends are paces away,
but they might as well just
in the dark.]
"it's getting late," she says, painting a face on a vacant stare glaring back at her from her bedroom mirror.
she frames her favorite parts and leaves the rest, alone, to the imagination.
she wanders the line her mind has drawn between her window and the door; one to the hall and one, ten stories to the street below. she lingers at the window, wondering, warmed. is there any other mode of egress?
she bears her heels down into the carpet, into her own footprints she knows would take her somewhere if she could ever leave her room.
she watches colors trace her hands, her strands of hair, as she turns in place.
"the way the glass is cut," she says.
and the lines she can retrace on her floor, on her face.
"the way the glass can cut," she says.
she lies across her rumpled sheets, drifting into deeper thought in the crystalline light of fusion crawling prismatically through the air, dreaming of solar radiation; of altitudes, and hypoxia.
and her dreams are always the same,
she steels herself against rushing air,
in them, she is always falling.
when most people dream of falling,
they never hit the ground.
awake again, and late, and she's braced to feel the cool night air on her painted face. she crosses again to her portal
to the world, and leans out to breathe it in.
"just to feel the night," she says.