it is 4a.m.
i peer down at christmas lights strung across dusty anthills.
6 stories and 1 roof high,
my metaphorical hand grasps the closest metaphorical hand;
knees are pressed up against backs for warmth.
a universe of birth and death opens up to us from the heavens,
and we laugh out of strained curiousity and contained excitement,
because this morning we were unsure of what it felt like to be human.
now we understand that the night chill is a reminder of our past,
and, much like the tide, it comes and goes.
when the breeze comes and goes,
my eyes ride the surface in the same manner that water swiftly glides on glass.
ice skating, pirouetting, my pupils touch the surface of wind in its entirety, as if embracing atoms.
God speaks nonsense out of clouds,
promising never again to fill cement gloves with fire.
my arms ache,
and my eyes, they long for another pair to gaze back into.