(about fingertips and falling)
cigarette smoke has invaded my lungs, your callused fingers have invaded my dreams;
this thick delirious haze is induced by sleep deprivation, and it’s a sedative to my functioning brain but a steroid to my butterflies;
I swear, the oxygen here is heavier, my lungs work twice as hard and my soul is on fire. these mountains break me to bits, a purgatory incinerating my insides like it’s made of dead bones and flammable fears.
somehow, ancient piles of rocks altered the way I perceive existence, myself, and you.
I have begun, at long last, to see my reflection, my face mirrored in the walls of my glass house, my comfort zone, the palace of my own creation, a personal prismatic prison; these walls are splintering;
and yes, I’ll get lost again. I’ll rebuild those walls and disappear inside of them,
but the oxygen here is overwhelming, the stars blinding, the sunset paints the sand and my ribcage golden, and for now i’m a little more alive.
these bones have begun to feel a little lonely, and suddenly my instincts crave you. so watch me tremble, fall apart; walls fractured are now falling, my foundations are shaking and so are your hands.
learn me, i’ll learn you back, and we’ll together learn the art of living, living fearless, living free: the ethos of existence.
trying not to fall too hard, too fast, too soon, we might have missed a step and discovered the agony of tripping on our own toes, a head start on the falling,
(we only said we’d try)
the scent of you, it burns my nostrils, stronger than those cigarettes.