Aug 172011
 

When I set out, I had wanted deserts and waterfalls, other oceans, the small chinked crying eyes of my friend at midnight across a smooth table of booming wood. Pushing myself through the stratosphere like a milkweed seed blown doomed from its pod, I got them. Happy with one dusty blue balloon, one lick of cotton candy, I came home loaded down with double handfuls of sparklers, my stomach pushed out by sweetness, sore with the good weight of being loved too much, kissed in too many ways until my lips are swollen, puffed and papery. When I sit and put down roots in ink and heartache, my memories blossom furiously, bursting out, flying over new meadows under a silken moon full of the silent cries of baby spiders.

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