How we are still going places in our minds as well as remembering where we’ve been. This is how we’re traveling indoors.
And it starts with an ending. Honeydew melons no longer ivy-ing shelves We can’t see each other smiling I cut rose petals and tape them on a page to create meaning but if your mouth is a mask and the fruit is poison than this is more than a virus. This is craving stiletto nights before silver dollar pancake Sundays This is lust, so much lust I am falling for every piece of salt thrown over my shoulder This is sugar-talking lonely, saying “come here, honey, I accept your roots and color them in thunderclouds & all” Even fruit flies have jazz hands and I am swaying with continents, language so whisked I am the Atlantic&Pacific’s adopted daughter I am sweet ache. London clotted cream. Florence steps caught in a cracked dream— an obvious nightmare or that time I waltzed in a cantina in Barcelona I am cowboy boots in Nicaragua and how lose is one letter off from love. I replay saying hi to the foreign boys in the ferris wheel and we were spinning, oh we were spinning and I wanted one of their shoes to pop off at the top and land on my head at the bottom as if I was a runway, I mean runaway, as if I was solid ground rotating a welcome mat for ventured feet bumbling out of trajectory, hugging this new muddy accent home.