Fair Flying

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.

the memory I miss the shadows that spin past eyelids, onto the floor, and legs sprouting like leaves from blanketed branches. I miss feeling your wounds heal under my mouth. I miss the coils of coalish petals you left on my pillowcase. I miss the unseen grins, minutes before sunrise. I miss sleep talk, on and off, biological alarms that sang me awake. I miss limbs against limbs, the art of the sleepless, and the blinking bruises of morning. the lament It’s Hell to wash the mess, to pick apart clinging wire, to accept that my body is just a body, and our love is shredded wrapping paper, unraveled piles of glittering ribbon, scarlet cellophane. It’s burning candles ‘til wax coats the table. It’s leaving the lights on all night, waiting for a rush of dust, a surge of music, a dash of pink salt and a bite of burnt pastry. It’s sliding off the roof and getting stuck in the gutter, coughing when you in

Woke up with your teeth lodged in my shoulder and wondered if my aura sticks to the roof of your mouth - azure wax spilling down lips and organs, between joints and nerves. My mind is a charred wick, crumbling. Woke up with flakes of ash on my sleeve, exhausted from thinking deeper than I can breathe. My body is wax, hardening to your shape. But when the flame falls, smoke spurts like blood and I crack.

between your mouth and crown, i’m waiting for a silent answer to a silent question like an atheist who prays. stitches aren’t thick enough to fix our broken souls, so i’ll take the pieces and unify, starting with fingers and auras, third eyes and toes. i’ll lace the pair of us like shoes, so we trip and fall. i want to play with your spirit, your sap, your being. i want to turn your tears to tea. my favorite part is not knowing what you’d do if i did.

I used to pour the last drop of tea down the drain. That was before the fall, before every crumbling piece was a ceramic wing, before an inner solstice had begun. I was a tool for gods to use. Now, I am their voice. I drink the last drop while the moon stretches, on the edge of ecstatic orgasm. Think of the oceans that wouldn’t exist without our tears, or holes in the earth, empty without our blood. Think of the walls we broke to build new ones. I drink the last drop while two girls across the street stumble in high heels like children playing dress-up. I would too, if I knew how to follow lamplight. But I’m not quick to kick, spinning into the night like a leaf - no, I am everlasting and cold. I am the the final swig, the ending sip. I am the seed you never spilled, but drank ‘til the last drop.