hummingbird

I’m skipping over dead flies in the staircase. Skip skip skipping like its wet grass and the wind is in my face. Climbing the wooden stairwell like it’s my own personal mountain and skipping around dead insects. An ignorant child in my eyes not knowing what death is. I’m running through the smoke of four piles of incense burning bright next to the window. I’m running to the wall, to the trickling paint beneath the gaping hole in it, the smell of color in my face, painting my lips. Rainwater colored. Hope colored.
It’s the smile reflected in my cup of coffee. Nice to believe in but it burns. The bass and the drums and the crying violins become the shades in the air as the weaves of smoke turn grey turn too much to ask. They become the unlit curves in my face that I don’t want to see in the mirror. The hidden parts of me, never to be understood for want of an extra light bulb.
Hey honey. Flip the light switch on and off and play with all your knowledge of me. Paint the photographs of me every color you want and have the pride to say you’ve never lied.
Hey darling. Things are a little bit different now I’ve dreamt of you.
The door cracked open just a little bit more as I woke to the taste of your breath in my tongue, to the feel of your fingers across my throat, across my thighs. Brushing lightly, too afraid to take a hold. Brushing lightly, like the incense gone to ashes that is blowing out the open window now.
Some dust is sticking to the fresh paint. And will stick to my words and my thoughts.
And a couple of dreams that won’t let me sleep.
But the window is open now. And I’m riding the wind.