There's a place where my mind is
(And occasionally my body).
Springtime is when it feels right,
when I can open the blinds,
open the windows,
and feel the universe breathe
a new life into me.
And I hear the children in the streets, speaking in their bubblegum tongue, singing about their wishes. Birds sing in octave, in response, or right alongside them.
To be a creature of sweetness and flight, to cradle innocence in its truest form, is something I cannot recall. Wings unclipped, the world they view is at their discretion. How I became bitter and flightless is not a mystery to me, not as I watch the dark clouds roll and frame the window in front of me.
The rain filters through the window screen, rainwater pooling up on the windowsill. I let the hot rain in and form specks on my arms and face. The droplets feel like thorns brushing against my dry, cracked skin.
But for now, mounds of snow
will line the windowsill,
slowly melting, unnoticeably,
until one day I wake up,
and I hear the sound of birds once more.
And the world is Warm Gray.
Warm Gray thaws this
wretched heart of mine, just a bit.
Enough to reminisce about
the feeling of youth—
the feeling that has escaped me.
Why did I ever let it get away?
