Pink toenail polish, almost completely chipped off. Hello Kitty bandaid wrapped around the left big toe. Hand-me-down sweat pants, shirt stolen from a friend. Last year's glasses with the scratched up lenses and the tooweak prescription. Hair fighting to escape the dreaded elastic band, wanting desperately to be washed, but there's no hot water.
Still. Heavy. Hot. Stagnant.
Not enough oxygen.
It's a drowsy pick me up.
Certain things fall back in place. They shift in the mirror, on the periphery of the universe, on the divide between reality and mockery. Jumping off that cliff and diving down to the bottom of the ocean, new depths explored.
It was a gun blast, rubber band quick.
Mouth opened and words came tumbling out. Vulnerabilities put before a jury of one.
The answer was always more than what was expected. Some voodoo magic shit going on here. Mind reading. Something. That secret place tucked right below the heart, where all the weak things hide, shattered open to the sounds of accusations and apologies.
All the bullshit on display, no way to hide from it.
All the lies and masks and false beliefs erode under pressure.
All the words that come pouring out are answered by an echo of growing intensity.
It's a drowsy pick me up.
Watching TV online, eating cold leftovers. Unintentional naps in the sun. No new information. No new stimulation. No changes. The water is calm and still and even the wind has died down.
Still. Heavy. Hot. Stagnant.
In the morning, we're going for a run.
We're going to run until our hip is burning in agony.
We're going to run until our lungs want to give out.
We're going to run like we used to.
You always seem to forget that I know you better than you know yourself.
Maybe someday you'll see what I see.
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