things that are occasionally the sky

static, of course, the obvious.

cotton candy, but only fresh off the reel, barely real.

reflections in any mirror, in the right light,

even in a dismal four-walled bathroom.

prettier in water, but wrong.

the sky is audible, the cadence of the wind,

the whoops and swirls, ebbing and flowing.

it screams and it whispers and hisses,

but mostly, it murmurs, grumbles and mumbles,

echoings that i can never quite hear.

it insinuates itself into the olfactory,

until i'm gasping deep, desperate to place the smell, the taste:

the flowers, the oceans, the dreams,

the weight of the salt on my tongue.

and i'm left with the lingering wisps of a passing gust,

i wish i remember what i am missing.

i stand still, occasionally, my head bowed, empty;

the sky sends my skin shuddering with its breath,

hot along my fingertips and cool along my spine.

i know the tingling of the pre-dawn, the dullness of dusk,

the obscenity of noonday sun.

sometimes i am whole, my body alight;

i smell the honeysuckle, i taste the sweet salt wash;

i listen to the wind,

screaming and whispering, murmuring and mumbling.

there are always reflections, always static,

but the sky is inescapable, unavoidable,

even when colorless, even when confined to a dirty mirror,

the static crackles on my skin,

like i could pull my skin off, pull my body apart with sticky fingertips,

paint my reflection on a mirror somewhere as she drifts apart.