FloatingMist

We call them Apple Strudel Days Warm and sweet and impossibly golden The days where imagination is just as palpable Touchable Delectable as reality Every place is any place and when you're in love He's always there Warm and unyielding and present If you just lift your hand Close your fingers In the distance He's in your palm Shining and Absolutely glorious That last bite sends the dreams away Cotton fills the brim of your stomach But you'll still wait for when He brings you violets

Painting The family portrait Our pint-sized Degas He is the tallest Long limbs, biggest smile Mom comes second Out of her shirt shines a heart Large and perfectly misplaced Set low in her pencil-width stomach Little sister is tiny Where the kneecap should be And daddy sits the highest On the back of his mount The family's overgrown pet Ears larger than space Buried in the backyard But he's still one of them So he paints him too

He pushes her up Lifted away, free and for that moment Flying What she leaves on the ground is you Pushed under Dirty rainwater or some other dusts her cheeks Pouring in gray and draining out the color The flower dies as you're pushed under Sinking has never felt so light So long as she's above Always above you

In a little silver place, the walls collapse in on themselves, and you're stuck inside. A few shallow breaths more and you're somewhere else, but you cannot, can never be, anywhere more. Those are the rules and they are untouchable. You've been so untouchable, too far gone and holding your own hands. And on your shoulders is something invisible and something no one can ever know; this thickness, the hide of dinosaurs before your time, before anyone's, keeps you here and it's camouflage. Nothing stops spinning. Tone and color, you've been reminded, have more personality than your own being: all their life and history and sickeningly raw p

He sits alone and withdrawn bare and unhidden. His shoulders, scarred. His conscience, forgiving. Looked to for guidance, sought out for reassurance. A heart so mellowed not yet calloused with age and bitterness. The leader, strong and caring, a bit used and a bit broken, with traits that reside within us all. Here is the prince, the epitome of tenderness.

Whirling Whirling Whirling She's dancing, dancing without you, and you've astounded yourself by bringing her here. It was only a few beats in your heart before she laughed and jumped in the way of everything, her broken façade left in a growing pile: piece by piece, shredded and shredding away. For now you watch. She's blurry, her calls cutting yet being cut by a new zephyr, and you're just standing so far away. But closing the distance is damaging. The pollen clings to her dress as she spins. You brought her here as a favor, for what she's done for you in recent times. It can't be for everything, no; you hope to someday make things