Musty

Some Mornings I wake up Drowning in sensations Unique to past moments And I am buried in a stuffy area At the top of my mind Musty with nostalgia And I relive these moments: I think, first of all, of darkness I think of my bare feet smacking against slick pavement As I run, staggering, Spurting out short giggles in between gasps of warm air As I inhale the sweet sweat of friends. I think of passenger seats Which hold the opportunity to fill the car with a steady bass That I feel pounding in my chest. The chilling bite of an open window on my fingertips And then on my hand And then on my arm. I think of my clenching abdominals After sustaining a hearty laugh And The reward of seeing that mirth return With glittering eyes And a tuneful cackle. I think of quilts and weathered sofa As I melt to the soft crack of a fire And my mother tugs at the tender hair on my scalp. I think of the intoxication I feel With the strike of a chord The vocalized emotions I am so willingly swept into And I choke on my so eager tears. I think of mornings with nothing to do When auras of these moments invade my perception of the present And I wander about the house Haunted Until words form in my mind And I mold and shape them Till the feeling flows out as lyrics.