Monday

The rush of spring floods stirs around the back of my head, swirling past my ear drums, takes up space like a wind might, it is soothing and exhausting all at once. I go to sleep early, like a child before her birthday, thinking the sooner I sleep the sooner it will be here. Wake before alarms, quiet sunrise over water towers, it is colder than it looks, what a gift. A day spreads out before me, a week, in nothing but creative brackets and literary swirls. My head continues to swim, a constant hushing like I had forgotten what peace sounded like and have to compensate for the silence. You were in my dreams one night, I woke with a smile, stretching my limbs and remembering my skin. My bones are bruised; I stand in the street and run my fingers over sore spots but they are invisible. There is so much you cannot see from the outside. All this to say I am sand, now, I am chaos in a dust devil, but I will settle eventually. All this to say even chaos glitters at the right angle, and I wouldn’t do this any differently even if given the chance.