Wanting for Words.

This life moves in fragments, in rhythms, in the sounds of footsteps in sand, in the buzz of streetlamps and insects. I try to follow it down that crooked pathway but I cannot look up, only at my own two feet. I inhale words in heavy breaths, in gulps. I swallow them voraciously, letting them coat my insides with their calming cadences. I lose myself to watching lips as they let words loose, as they dance off them and at the eyes that react inside skulls.

I find, in the way the clouds move across the sky-changing- the image of what I wish I was, moving shifting, scattering, leaving the place I once was forever behind me. In footsteps I search for history, for evidence. I ride the tail of yesterday trying to catch a hold of tomorrow but it's always too fast for me. There are so many things to happen yet and they all live on the edge of everything which has already happened, hinting. What if we aren't what we live but what we dream?

I'm often someone else in dreams, wondering whose head I'm in and what I'm doing there. I'm writing, "Eyes of a Blue Dog" on the floors of dream houses in lipstick- waiting for myself to understand what it means. I'm spending a Season in Hell, illuminated. I'm living inside a disquietude which I cannot quell. I'm asking myself, "Who are you?" I'm asking someone else, "Who is he?" I'm asking no one, "Who am I?"

I'm waiting, wandering through these moments wanting for the words to wrap themselves around me. Sometimes, I can find them hiding beneath the layer of hours lost to work, waiting to see the ends of their own sentences.