Past the Hour of Sleep

Last night I lay awake past the hour of tired. I heard the sky break open, thunderous claps, hard beaten rain, wind whispering through the curtains. The streets were still. My naked body stretched in humid sheets, sticking like honey. The pressing of heat, pressure systems colliding in the sky. I felt awash in the night air, as if there was no separation between the surface of my skin and the air. No separation of raindrops and sweat. The air wrapped around me like a second skin, the dim glow of street lights illuminating my curtains, casting copper light on the front of my thighs, trailing down my legs and sliding between my toes. 

A sense of mystery that the small view out my window, looking over rooftops, caught between electrical wires was expanding and contracting, growing deeper and wider with each breath. I felt the ebb and flow of oceans beyond borders of land, rolling over treetops, the slate blue horizon seemed as if it were the edge of the world, my feet upon the precipice.

I moved in slow motion, some sort of conscious projection hurling myself out of walls and window screens. Suddenly the world was open, electric lines of communication and words delivered as dreams to lost loves, unrequited. I felt them all as ghosts and kissed them gently upon brows, upon bruised cheeks…unknowingly, I thanked them, for teaching, breaking, bleeding and keeping me hungry. The opening of hearts and lips, a portal of past selves floating in puddles.

I once called love, knew it by names and shapes. It now echoes, a deep cavern tucked in my ribcage. Where once it was locked, an abandoned house, boards on windows…I breathe in the soft early morning air, it nourishes me, I honor my ghosts who trail behind me, finding homes in my footprints. I set them down to rest. I lie there, thoughts darting like hummingbirds, my skin warm and tender. I release these so called skeletons. I create new space.