She was crying so I flipped the switch to madness and leapt straight into the air, thirty thousand feet of troublesome sky. She stood in line to watch me go, waiting her turn with the ghosts I've left strewn across the country. The Atlantic looked on with disapproval, and I hoped I could find a piece of Pacific before word traveled that far. The light hits me square in the pupils so I reach for some mountain shade to pull over my head. I just need another hour's sleep and enough oxygen to last my lungs till landing. She dropped her wheels straight in California for the sickly sweet Oceanside style and some Oakland flavor, but I kept my distance and flew on over her head with all the world beneath me.
It's three drinks before my mind slips out and I'm left with a vacant skull full of fading Northwest sun. Something restless is being painted on the cavernous cave that echoes with empty thoughts and she is the Michelangelo to my Sistine scalp. I am branded and collecting donations, a visitor's fee because no one gives a shit about beauty unless it costs something.
No photography, please allow the moment to be a moment and hold your breath until it's done. Hidden in all moments is an expanse of experience that must be cradled as an infant. The lines she draws in cranial nooks follow her pattern of sweetness and there is too much beauty as layers of grey sink into bone like roots digging for water. The world has crowded in to watch, everyone minding their elbows and sneezing into palms slicked with anticipation and ignorance. The dull roar of thoughts hurtles ceaselessly around this bone canvas. Her tears fall as she paints and I stand in line to watch.
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