I do not have my head in the clouds; my entire body rests on one. I feel uneasy, with my swirling thoughts. Raspberry ah-choo, and blueberry bless you. All small loves are just mild illnesses. One can recover without antibiotics. Just a bit of rest, and plenty of fluids.
Ghosts are always wearing what they died in, but they want so much not to be their last memory. They want so much to no longer exist alone.
Today, my Frankie turns five. Next year, it will be on another day. Close to this one, but different. I change his birthday often, eager to celebrate him sooner.
I know myself through him. We have braved three in the morning through dense fog together. We have stood up to men who have taken liberties with my body together. We have cried out the demons together.
Our little bones fold into each other, when I hold him, and we become king under the dark moon’s influence. Our flag on every mountaintop. Our breath in every tornado. We are the hunters, we are the gatherers. Four eyes, sharing one vision. We are the sweet nectar, and the tender meat. We are Rome in its rise. We are the holy shrine.