I cannot fly but your words whip the wind under my arms. Just a smile and wink, just a poke in the ribs and a kick in the shins, and I am no ones. We stare at the dead brown leaves stuck to my shoes as we kick through the dead drifts, and I wait for something profound. You are too busy staring at the end of a bottle, pointed towards the sky, as a telescope for the stars.
I get it. You aren’t scared by thunder anymore it makes you feel alive. You’re strapped to a table, waiting for the electricity to hit. I made sure the knots were tight around your wrists and ankles, as I tied you to the bed and opened the window to the storm, but you still insisted on more. More! I Want More!! I am no weatherman. I am no God. So I filled pint glasses with water as you screamed up at a disappointing belt of nondescript cloud, threw them across your writhing torso, and wondered when I might see the calm eye of this storm.
I remember when you pushed a sewing needle between the webs of my fingers and you told me; we can’t be calm and safe…we are the autumn leaves that cling to the branches and turn green again. I have no idea what this means.
Probably it doesn’t matter; but it does. I am directionless and you offer me a path…the wrong one, but a path nonetheless.
© Jimmi Campkin