A slight, sugary burn,
Coats the sides of my tongue.
You know, the parts that lift up slightly, and push up against molars?
It makes sense, I suppose, to feel an uptilt in the soft flesh, nestled between my teeth.
Someone told me, just this week,
‘You have no control over a story, once it’s out there.’
Was I scared, or electrified?
Thinking about a sort of giving birth, maybe, to a word-made child,
That smells like paper and ink.
My sheets were soft last night,
And my body’s warmth surprised me.
In the dark, to know just one heart,
Could make the world seem less alone.
The gentle rub of silicone ear-buds,
Against my ear while I listened to a stranger,
Talk me asleep from across a vast cyber space,
Made me think a little discomfort,
Is often worth it.
The cold air touched my cheeks this morning.
I thought my hair felt pretty, soft, luxurious, long – where before it was not.
I woke up and realised that perhaps a brush, would be best suited to the strange clumping on my head.
Across the sky, different strokes of deep blue, pinkening with frost,
Sun rays, and full of clouds,
Made my stomach muscles clench with a familiar body-ache
– a familiar soul ache –
That I could not leave my skin, or singing kettle, to be a cloud.
Just for a moment, not forever,
I wanted, just for a moment, to feel the rush of dropping recycled sea-water into the depths of the Earth,
And then – glide peacefully, allowing my shape to be,
While small children attempt to figure out what shape I could be.
After, I would return to my warm skin, luxurious hair and singing kettle.
I would start work, with a small smile pulling at the edge of my lips,
My tongue gliding against the inside of my mouth, tapping against my teeth (as if I had enamel to spare)
And I would feel like writing a poem, later, after clients and bosses have been satisfied,
About my adventure as a cloud.