Missed

I dreamed of airplanes again, of lives in transit, the comforts of home. I don't know why I keep having these dreams, I suppose I should be listening. A friend asks how I'm doing, and I answer working too much and working too little in the same breath. It turns out to be exactly the truth. I try to scrub tingles off my skin, try to wring myself out of this body to try to save it in the fall, this life would be a farce if it wasn't so tragic and once my work is done I realize I scraped the magic right off. Maybe there's plenty where that came from, I suppose we might find out.

I have this heart full of love, you know. I have these arms full of comfort, this head full of song, I try to use them on myself but I forget so often. In a dark room in the west village, I sat with a small child wrapped around my body, taking gentle breaths and thinking of eternity. We can all be reduced to humans. That is a magic that cannot be scrubbed off.

Come. I dare you to try it.