I float.

Above, above, above,

Out of my body

Sometimes I forget that the words have to have thoughts behind them,

that they won’t just burble out in neat, cursive lines

I wish I could be floating,

not here in my body.

Not here,

picked over by the vultures of scorching desert eyes

Not here, grappling with the unruly _concepts_

that refuse to be harnessed into real words.

words that are understood.

I am floating,

because this moment doesn’t feel real.

Moments like these never do,

Not these,

The ones that are so short, fleeting, soaring on mayfly wings,

and crucial.

No second-chances.

The words tickle on the tip of my tongue,

a truth that makes me feel unsafe.

I’m not who I pretend to be,

I think you’re starting to realize.

I am not the mask,

Not the jokester,

Not the floater, though I wish for wings.

No, I am the one real,

With my paper-skin and matchstick-bones,

Every word a mistake or regret.

I don’t know how to explain to you,

I don’t know how to make you understand.

Just like that, the moment is over,

and I am alone.

My wings fold out,

Bones extending in a perfect joint,

Fluttering feathers in the cool, comfortable space.

My space.

And I drift,

Away,

Away from the real,

Till I am floating

High above the bustle,

The worry,

The city,

Into my own cloudless dusky sky.