I watch the fog roll in from Lake Michigan. Spilling down the river. Engulfing my skyline. It's the way my head feels for this past year. I'm blurred. If she's has me, it's probably all wrong... but you're missing the point. At least she got me.
Let's explore extending hearts from the arches of our feet, to the arches of our backs pressed against window panes, as we sing songs in the key of lust. Crushing lungs buried under blankets meant to keep you warm, and away from that door.
If you take the time to look at peace long enough, you will find war. The same goes for my chest. This past year has been about my own shadow grabbing me by the feet, only to grow taller than us. I'm here to rebuild the engine in your chest, and to help you blink away the tears.
Home feels like the look in her eyes. Away is just these paper mache lungs, struggling to breathe inspiration. These paragraphs are only silhouettes in her peripheral.
