Chicago Spring

I’m layered to the sixes now. The 45 degree air tips at my leather jacket. This is colder than it should feel and rounding May I’m over it. The buds on the trees are too, trying like they want the sky to be.

Cuddle weather with longer days. I ache to feel my skin radiate with the sun. I want the tan of my ancestors. I want to crave the lake. I want my breasts to not be congested by paneling, or my legs to be contained in something labeled skinny.

And for the wind to make my hair wild, and to make the tops of my ears sing.

But most of all, I want to feel warm, starting from my chest and moving out through my fingertips so that my touch feels like a love poem even with innocent intent.I long to be weightless like the air that touches the crest of the waves on the shoreline.

Indulgent like the hot dogs they sell on the road side.

Adored like spotting neighbors also drinking on patios.

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Orange Skies

They don’t tell you this will always feel new, but you will experience it with the karmic penance of past lives. You will feel the weight of worry like talons etched in your shoulders but your heart will skip like tasting coffee.

You will pass a million thoughts like exit signs on the highway before one in specific will inspire you to bare right. Your head will not know. Your head will not know. Your head will know but will shut you down every time.

You will trace every possible outcome and tell yourself the worst is the one this will lead to. You will be musical chairs. You will be plans B through Z.

You will be your chin flick of the hand, a lined up secondary lover. You will want to hear from them but you will reach out to another. You will be nails on a chalk board, a fire fight, a drunken brawl with a fan in your colors at a ball game, but this act will not bring you home.

But you feel stage lights. You feel goal horns. You feel the sweet summer breeze and cars passing by at midnight. You are tickled but interrupted. You will claim to be desolate, but you are so damn ripe. You will shout a battle cry and it will come out like a song, or the other way around. You are tethered to the fear. It has been a blanket, or so you say.

Or so I say. I’ve been saying a lot of things about strength lately. I’ve been living in monochrome for sake of a fourth of my soul. Every other part has seen the sunrise, but this sore spot has stayed shaded. And I don’t believe I’m ready to change that even if it were on the table.

But I can’t help but be modestly turned out.

Like when I see you in the morning- the sunlight dancing lines across your cheek. You have saliva dripping slowly from the corner of your mouth.

You are snoring. My nails drag slowly across your naked back. You mumble something in the wake of comfort before falling gently back to sleep.

I stay awake just long enough to smell the cold city streets and our pheromones synch together. I stay awake long enough to take a short picture with my eyes.

Change of Heart

The heart is a terrifying thing, it does not turn with the seasons, it does not flow with the tide, it is not captured by the moon. It starts and stops like an fickle engine. It trusts and rusts like a beat earthed deep inside the ground-a hint of it’s purple pulse overshadowed by wilted leaves. It’s resilient like a colicky toddler. It’s scaled in elasticity. The heart burns like a contraction only to give birth to things we can only hope are greater-things with endless light and limitless possibility.

Begin Again

I am winging it in that I have wings but haven’t quite mastered flight.

In my first floor apartment, I find myself airing grievances about something that currently bothers me little but used to matter so much. Outside, the thermometer rises slowly in the shade as though the summer is talking to it.

Its waiting to begin.

It is waiting to begin.

I am a kaleidoscope of miss-charted territories, aimlessly scenic, and frayed at the splinters. The blood on my ankle from a rough step is crusting. The red on my shoe turned brown. Small bursts of hair poke from below my skin line. I am mildly unkempt but clean, biking down lane-less, lawless, city streets. The spring in Chicago, is a forget-me-not. It’s as transient as vacation-met lover.

It waits to end the moment it begins. It wants to give us something better.

At my local watering hole, The bartender’s pink streaks of hair peak out from beneath overhead track lights. My friend goes over our answers half way to her heart’s content.

I am sitting here in my skeleton trying by best not to look rattled. I am faced daily with the choice of not making the same mistakes, but somehow the decision is proving more challenging that it ever out to be. Comfort in crazy is like using a dead carcass to keep you warm at night. It’s a syndrome named for a city, but it occurs everywhere. We walk straight but step in circles- square dancing each other’s sheets.

Until we decide that it’s over, it will always begin again.

My morning tastes like sleepy eyes, but not of last night’s candor. Outside the sun taps on my window. Inside the once heated pikes creak. I stretch my back to crack a bit. I leave my bed in thirds. The decaf coffee bubbles in the pot as my roommate brushes her teeth.

On grills across the city, bacon crackles like the gravel below tires. Beverages of all kinds are being poured in glasses.

In bars, and in apartments, on bikes and our feet, we are waiting to get started.

Within myself, and outside myself, I am waiting to begin again.