V. Ethereal

Maybe being drunk
is the closest I will
ever get to zero gravity--
to walking on the moon.

My fingers curled
around the neck of a liquor bottle,  
I wander to my bedroom window,
as a tipsy weightlessness settles
amongst my limbs
(and my thoughts).

Swaying slightly,
I part the curtains and,
in my intoxicated stupor,
search for Polaris in the night sky,
point to it,
press a clumsy hand to the glass,
convince myself that
I have captured the star,
and all the omniscient power
it possesses,
beneath my finger tips.

Star light,

{lips pant--
inebriated,
heavy}

star bright,

{my breath appears a catalyst
as the window pane glazes over
in an impenetrable paroxysm of fog}

first star I see tonight,

{I take a swig,
raise the bottle--
a toast
to the cosmos}

I wish I may,

{Lashes meet in
silent matrimony}

I wish I might,

{Behind closed, desperate eyes,
ribbons of colour dance
towards me in a disoriented jig}

have this wish I wish tonight--

to be
obliterated by the very galaxy
that birthed
these grieving bones
and this tumultuous heart.

Because only then--
as the Gods paint the Night
with the innards of my soul,
acrylic purples
churning against the blackness--
will I become what I
have always dreamed
of becoming:

Lovely.

Ethereal.

Like a sinful seduction, I slip off the edge of sleep,
my eyes are drawn to the darkest shadows of my room... kinetically searching...
I seem to penetrate them, my mind breathes life into them,
they begin to stir and morph into the preludes to my peculiar dreams,
bizarre at first until inevitably familiar,
as if I had lived them indefinite times in the past... and infinite times in the future... remembering... becoming... unfiltered and unaffected...
my subconscious is my truth, awakened by my dreams.
I long to remain lost in this ethereal bliss.

Lavender petals dust the
floor of the shop,
pearls of stems and beads
of thorns stick up from
the carrier bins on display.

Fingertips grace the
blooms of the pink and twilight
nuzzled petals,
so pretty, so fresh,
so ethereal.

A flower shop,
a vortex of learning and beauty,
one for joyous occasions
or forlorn ones, but
for occasions nonetheless.

And my occasion
for such a place with
such ethereal beauty
and flowers with
limbs of outstretched
support and beauty came from
loving and caring for you.

morning light is always the most beautiful
there's a kind of tenderness that borders on pure naivete
an inexperienced fracture of grace that
unfortunately the sunset does not contain
although i am never awake for it
i am acutely aware of it behind closed eyelids
There's an optimism I've never felt on the creases of my palms

i wish i could explain to you
how boring that art gallery was
i can't remember what color shirt i was wearing
there's a lot of things i'm only half there for
i'll drift to nowhere precise and my eyes will get that faraway glow of a look and you'll think i'm in love
but it's just my inattentiveness to stay in my body for long
i'm less devil may care and more jitterbug hiding it's own epileptic seizure

i guess it's all about forgetting things and then trying to find where you put them
sometimes you stop looking altogether and come to terms with the fact that some things want to remain lost
morning light is always the most beautiful

sometimes she daydreams about life the way i do about death. it's ironic, i know: black and white aren't meant to be grey and the rumbling hum of expletives digging into mauve lips pass through like desaturated light to translucent statures. it makes everything seem sweeter than it looks. she thinks the ache feels lukewarm, just like those half-hearted smiles she gives out like presents on a holiday, and she may be right. pain is not cold, it covers your entire heart with microwaved fingers, leaving burn marks that leave chars and ashes. snaps the purple heartstrings and clumsily tries to mend it.

(i love you because you're corporeal, she murmurs, you keep me sane)

she's spider-webbed, sung gossamer and silk while her bar lines drip with ink. and she seems moonstruck—because of me she says and blooms throughout my epiphanies. fancies herself a ghost, a wisp, something ethereal that lingers on my lips like a kiss. and she lingers, oh she does. toppling from the skies and collapsing into my rib-cage, she stays, blushing rose-like and thriving. velvet and constellations of blood clots patter against her skin. it blooms like she blooms, a paint splattered canvas meant for all to see.

I could be an illusion to you,
something so ethereal that
people begin questioning
what I really am.

Maybe I’m just a voice,
a bit of reason in the world
or just a conscience with
a body.

I could be nothing at all,
just a figment of imaginations,
hopes, dreams, failures, hatred,
and love.

You question my nature as if
you knew your own. You don’t,
you can’t even begin to understand
your purpose until you’ve suffered.

Until the world around you collapses
and is picked up piece by piece only
for you to hear each piece plead to be
reconnected. So it turns into a puzzle

you don’t understand, a puzzle where
some pieces just can’t fit with each other
but you force them together anyways.
Because if you don’t fix it who will?

And yeah, your pain and suffering
will lead you so deep within a darkness
that’s unbearable, unbelievable, and
cold. But that’s what you’ve got

to do. Find the darkness so you will
understand the light. I am a light,
willing to guide you, you’ve just got
to hold onto me and just trust

me.