Your hands where there should be wings.

I left town for a few days. Packed a too large red bag, packed an overt book, packed a set of acknowledged expectations. As I got closer to the center, the landscape changed -- greens greener, edges sharper. It rained. Inside of me, outside of me. I broke down a bit, I collaborated my pieces. I asked to never return home (asked only myself for I knew I would not answer).

And then, I did return home. With my heart, my hands, my head, my feet. The landscape returned, the absence of the book felt good but felt absent, the expectations were dissolved like flesh-colored spit into a glass of water.

But it didn't end there! It never does!

Now I turn in fifty directions a second. It's too hot out; it's too cold. My legs hurt; my legs pine. I open the windows; I lower the drapes. I sweep the dust; I gather pollen thicker than my own skin.

I can get nothing clean, nothing right. I keep wiping the floor, and my feet keep leaving their obvious marks.

There is one hand under my back while I sleep, pushing me up. I'm afraid if I close my eyes too long, I'll awake in the sky.

Or I'm already in the sky, and this is how I tell the story on my way down.