Friday, February 24, 2017

Flights

There are a few mountains in orbit around me who think they can land whenever they chose. They lay claims to my beating heart and the breath that fills my lungs. They purchase the skin that holds my ribs and stake a flag on my thighs. They hover and touch down, kicking up the dust of my memories and scattering the papers of experience all about my runways. I'm usually left, standing bare, in the middle with disheveled and dry hair, thirsty for any liquid and wondering how I got caught up in someone else's air. The vortex of a few words snaps me up violently and acutely.  I am theirs during the exchange.

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