Burning bright, she descends. Over the dream catcher doors and bent beacons of dappled light. Caught briefly on the hand of a stranger, on the glance of clear blue specks bubbling up in a glass of water. Melting into butter dreams, into the shapes of organic things, tulip bulbs and mushroom stalks. Into the darkness behind her eyes comes a bloom, centered and rare flower turning into summer air Peeling layers from onion emotion, tearing at feeling until there in the underbelly some recollection. That conversations leak liquid life, she is pouring and swirling together the pieces, from all the parts that made her. Deep in the well, she creates her own reality, looping back the thread and mending secret chambers, describing her future to the ones that write fate. All inside the cactus vines of her mind, she distracts and calls out the time lines. To the places she found when she was a child, when she didn’t understand how life could get so cruel and unravel at the slightest pull. Coming back, she jerks from sleep and wants the dream again. Licking lips of morning and craving the mystical chills of chaos. Where there is no one to communicate to, or help understand, where she can slip out and forget to lock the door, comfortable with no one manning the store.