I remember that timeless presence of glowing anticipation and excitement.

Do you remember that phase of time when promises of the future were stings of beauty and adrenaline that tickled so hard you cringed with an innocent pleasure (that was almost erotic)?

I do now, but after I discovered it half alive inside my swollen memory.

(Memory is fun when I can retell it shamelessly.)

I do remember when time was [a] present:

before the spiders took over my silky consistency with a creeping restlessness,

before they wove wax and venom veils inside my eyes, poisoning my perspectives to warp all thought into monsters and mirrors: into a pretty masochism

(This was the time I danced with the dead like dust without wind.)

I remember strangling my subconscious for substance, gagging it for secrets and smearing the vague, precious vomit on laughing paper. I was hungry for understanding, but ashamed to make the effort without hiding behind abstractions and spiteful cliches.

I thought that in order to love, I had to suffer.

(But by receiving love so unconditionally I learned otherwise).

And now,

I feel the familiar glow like the warm voice of a sun child on my skin.

I faintly sense the direction of the source.

It's begging me to open my insides again ( made up of rotted apple cores and half eaten glass creations.)

The warmth sings with a strong humming,

“Free the dust between your veins, burn the stains of rust around the sieves of your heart.”

My eyes (sewn with sickness) have become beautifully blinded by a new-old kind light,

and I inhale the sun like angel's breath.

I hear children singing promises of wisdom (their voices melting me into present time).

I open and listen with a younger observation.

I reach outward...

(to find).....

….................................

The sky is soft pink water on transparent satin.