Forge

When I think of you I'm reminded of silver fields that lead into winding, sleeping streams; of warm cherry red jackets and the freezing, crystal clear water that I'd dip my curious fingers into. Knotty pine and one-room houses floating in the sky, endless stormy clouds forming graphs, winding streetlights. I think of boys that look like the moon, broken machinery, a chance to finally lacerate an old wound.

I think of muggy mornings where triangles of sunlight dance behind my eyes, of nights spent with centipedes and spiders and roaches in empty golden rooms, of prismatic oceans, placid glass that let me see each swaying arm of kelp as it reached for the surface on the ceiling above me. The inability to speak or think, always caught up on some word or phrase or meathook of emotion.

I think of a dirty mattress in a dark room and blood in my eyes and in my nose and LED lights in my brain and and laughter in my chest and tears on my sleeves and teeth on the walls and everyone sharing the same blankets. Heavy rain and saying goodbye and knowing that none of them understood that it was supposed to be forever.

I think of sitting alone atop a blooming mountain. I think of the room with the spiders and centipedes, of ramps of light, of the endless sleep and the never-ending goodbyes.