I could click New Post and let my fingers dance to Bonobo after a few beers and think of you, my spinning clay, who wants to move her own way.
I could insufflate the crystalline phenethylamine that beckons me from the dark drawer and sit outside and watch our stars swirl their pastel dreams until the damn sunrise and sleep all day just to pass the time so I could write about it after spilling myself and our potential all over your back.
I could live for whatever reason seems most right as its fleeting like our lives into something else, something blurry, something beautiful.
I could pick up my guitar and shred to reveal a smile that my father gave to me.
I could close my eyes one last time and it wouldn’t even matter who I was or who was around like a drop of water falling into the sea.
I can’t deny what you do to me. I turn the music up louder. I let the ethanol bind to the GABA and metabolize. I gather knots and undo them in the only true sun from the inside out.
Anything could be said. Anything could be done. There is something whispering my name into my ear. Something keeping me in check. Even as the Earth begins to burn again- We hold hands and dance around the fire clock-wise.
I walked up to the house along the meadow cautiously
not sure if it was the right one or not
and met an old man on the porch shaking involuntarily from age
who gave me a cardboard box
full of Dungeness crab shells
that washed up on Manresa
some still with dehydrated eyes,
but most just with holes
where they once lurked a weird window.