MoonLune

My brain begins to fabricate and patch together with hands like amble and jointless things. I remember when my eyes closed and I could play make-believe the way I did before my bones stretched out and my chest was cavernous. 

I wake up with a thump of a closing book. I wake up to everyone I’ve ever been. The air here is balmy and sweet like date syrup. They wave at me and laugh. I cover my face.

When my hair was champagne yellow, the misplaced swiss pines would poke into the gray sky like paintbrushes. The mist around me would prick and goad. She’s here too, she smiles bigger than anyone else.

Her eyes follow me like iridescent wings. My eyes are like sand turned to glass. “When it’s good, it’s sharp and you can hear it from anywhere.” With her hand over her chest, she sounds just like me.

My time is cut up into pieces of yellowed paper. The fire is still warm on my skin. “Will it always be as hot?” My face matches the multi-colored screens that light our way to different time zones. There is nothing in the brown of his eyes. No light, no path.

I sat back into a leather seat and I could hear the child in me speak in a small, sailor-dress voice before the shrill laughter that rips through my chest is hushed by my whirlwinds.  My mouth opens and there is nothing but impacted wisdom teeth and the things I wish I didn’t say, like scum around the rest.

The grit is still under the folds of my jacket and I can hear the delicate padding of careful thoughts trying to step through me. You contort behind my eyes. The air is like stinging salt. I tend to be soft, but I’m splitting as you reach for me.

I could turn to windowsill dust in my own hands. I settle into the whirls of my fingertips. I reach into my chasms. The click and the sharp empty sounds. There’s only the tang of orange rinds. I close my eyes again, shadows pressed into bone. Everything is blue between the sky and water, and then it’s gone.