3 in the afternoon

The sun drifts in now
Hair hanging low in the smoke

The heads are of height of kites
 and the bodies laugh with the sunflower giddiness.
 Words trip out of the mouth, a string of syllables that sound like clouds that could breathe. The room is made of wolves and dream catchers, smoke quickly filling up the daylight of the room. 
Few people take up the space. 
The comfort of a cluttered room, the odd nostalgia of a frameless bed that covers most of the floor. 
Books, pillows, couches, a gentle hum of a tv in the background. Cigarette ashtrays littered on windowsills and in the centers of tables.
And while a grandma slumps in her recliner in the living room, her pets perch near her, one on the armrest and the other curled around her feet.
A cigarette hangs from her lips and she stares blankly into the tv
 There are an assortment of books shelved on the dark wood cases along the walls around her, dusty and untouched. 
         
                   5 minutes ago

I lie on the carpeted floor of the cluttered bedroom, my head resting on a flat stained pillow. The pipe nestles in my hand and I notice someone that's sprawled on the bed outstretch their arm to grab it. I mean to extend back and give, but I start to feel the warm whirlwind around my body and the intention quickly becomes lost in my head. My hand is empty now, my fingers uncurl and bend. There are a thousand white hot balls of fuzz that texturize on my skin, they work as if they're wings on my back because I'm standing and walking

Through the halls in the brown white house, 4 feet at a time
I wonder where the floor is, I feel air beneath my feet


I see a dream caved out of that summer blue night a thousand years ago, saved on this sunny day
with hands thrown out in the air
A breathless handstand
A handprint of memories go back into the heaviness

I can see the hammer on a thousand words 
that shut the sound from a mouth
a red hue of dissaprovement 

feel the sleep in my bones and absence of warmth

the flowers hung in the ceiling