changeable homes

Do you think we like this. Folding backwards, forward and out to make the ends meet. When the morning comes and shrinks us into our clothes, and coffee cups. The silence bridges our conversations and music pulls us from our pores into the afternoon, closer, almost touching freedom. Maybe we live on the inside, in our changeable homes. Yet it becomes enough to lick salt from our lips and dream of the ocean. To find photographs of places and lists that line notebooks and post its on our desk underbellies. Each step follows and ponders tomorrow, about the beginnings and endings that pile like laundry on the bedroom floor. Calling spirit and answering, sweet talking the edge of a dream. Blossoming garden on skin and bone, carrying the pieces that nurture, until it follows the  days and nights in unison. Gliding long into the illusion, arms outstretched and open, until I can’t stand the thought of it being enough. Until the vision clouds my eyes and the veil drops, bare burning burden of truth. Each story thread unravels, tapestry collapsing into the fragrant scent of starting new. Without sorrow, I listen carefully to the pumping press of my heart. Slipping into the darkness, finally seeing the forest for the trees.