Fair Flying

Stories hitch in sore necks, climb our throats, and yank wisdom from tired gums—clammy stomachs tumbling gems. Week one of six—knitting infinity with tongues. Between inflated cheeks and lost teeth, we choke ourselves with tears, spit on paper and knotted gauze. I’m not strong enough to hold the holy books we’ve written— sprinkled with fingernails— or swallow violet sediment. Ink glistens like pavement in the pupils of twelve parched eyes, begging— how will we survive?

For our birthdays, we exchanged socks like promises: I’ll protect you if you protect me . But we hated confinement, so often, we shed our socks and raced through hallways, puddles, rivers — more than common ground. We broke free of simplicity—spilled over walls like nail polish, screamed like firing guns, and ate our fill of rainclouds. For your birthday, I wear your socks, slip, fall, and think: I’ll get up for you if you get up for me.

Creativity and I   We're the couple who sits in booths, passing scribbled napkins instead of speaking . We're the weirdos who don't know if they're friends, siblings, or lovers  (and no  one  else knows either) . We're two different  colored grapes  on the same vine (we  make a nice ros é ); two  rose bushes growing  into each other; two stained glass windows on either side of a church; one red and one blue lens in a pair of 3-D glasses. Creativity and I are inconsistent, sloppy, and sometimes  intoxicated. Our love is high, wild, storm-ready, innocent, focused ,  mature, and confused. We have some  commitment issues, but our love's a fun one. In other words: reading "Big Magic" made me realize that my relationship with Creativity is extremely unconventional (and at times positively contradictory), but we like it that way.