I wake up and look for cloudy skies.
My heart has exhaled this thought a thousand times over
a river running through its rivets quite possibly like sunlight in a cathedral flooding me with
small arrays of color that cling
on my skin like a
new dress.
It leaves me breathless for a moment.
The breeze grasps it gently and allows it to run softly through its
fingers in a twirl.
I think it's quite splendid.
Every thought grows in a garden
begging to be beautiful,
much more beautiful and technicolor than I could ever dare to be.
Every flower is inspiring to me
beauty pulls me in a way like I can't even help it.
There is a sweet sickness inseparably connected like tree roots searching for a purpose
to my heart
and they call it night.
They call it fire.
They call it love.
There are many names
this sickness has adopted,
the letters written about it revealed like spilled milk on
the surface of the moon.
It is quieting and riveting all at once reminding the earth
that quells unquestionably below it
there is adventure and danger there,
a braid of pale pink petals leading to the center of its electric voltage.
"Do not touch it."
The whispers echo off the spaces between my ribs,
reminding me
as so many things in this riveting world do
that I am tragically human.
I am a little bit lost without you.
My eyes close like pale suns against hard mountains covering themselves behind rose-colored lenses.
This world is much prettier when you forget you're in it
when you are no longer the world but
forgotten inside it.
Hide behind that rose-colored glass. It's easier that way.
Forget everything you've ever heard about it.
The only music to listen to is the one resolutely beating against your bones,
your fragile barricade of flesh, your memories;
let the poem within you flourish in an instant
and live on forever or
as long as you can stand it.
A sick thumping within my chest speaks to me finally,
telling me all the fears I never should have loved,
all the moments it plunged and dove and danced just for you.
I will always miss you.
After all,
how does the sun forget to miss the sky
when the mountains will devour it?
-k.p.b
Three Books Deep:
"chasers of the light: poems from the typewriter series" by: Tyler Knott Gregson
"Blue Horses" by: Mary Oliver
"Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems" by: Billy Collins
