My Body is a Dream Pool

Another day of feeling moony.

Spice clings to my tongue like a stubborn lover. Hot, persistent hugging the curves of my mouth demanding more.

Dahl, beef, red pickled onions remain percolating on my taste buds as persistent as the dreams that dance across my pillows, flickering beneath my lashes, flashing across these baby-blue screens.

This is practice. This is life. This is life practicing being more real, more unapologetically alive. The sky was certainly not sorry to be so blue this morning. The moon made no mentions of amends for lingering in the firmament for so long.

She just hung there.

More or less full, more than less, but a little less than a few days ago. She is that way forever changing, showing different phases and faces: pocked, penumbral, crescent, absent or nearly. Unabashedly doing what She will.

The sky an assault of sapphire—utterly unapologetic in its directness.

The clouds did nothing to abate it brazenness, but only enhanced the bold declaration of defiance. Sweeping down frosted mountains to meet the road, the parking lot, the trucks and SUV’s too preoccupied with their own existence to take time to notice.

But I noticed.

I gawped.

My whole way driving down all the winding black roads I took to where I was going, I stared at the soft, bumpy, belly of the moon suspended in sapphire. The trees don’t have the decency to change yet and cling stubbornly to their summer garments. Too green. Bring on the rust, the gold, the amber, and bronzed stirred and sailing on invisible breezes.

Life is a dream, sweetheart! And I am bursting with bees.

My cells dance and hum and sing a song just for you, but maybe not just for you for it is provoked by the moon.

And this pool, these dreams, these eyes…are they real?

Are you?

Am I?

What is real?

Life feels more and less real when I do not sleep. Sleep feels far away and so close I could kiss it, could kiss the sky as if flows through my windshield and over my hands and fingers and pools in my shoes.

Is that real?

The taste of salt on my lips, and cracked lips that have left impressions and paths where feet have tread and stumbled and wandered and bumbled over my bones gripping my flesh.

There’s that buzzing again.

Bees?

Is it bees in my blood, or ants in my wine red pants (they’re bellbottoms and I don’t want to take them off lately; they make me feel like I am 15 again, and I like her—the 15 year-old-girl who lives inside me)?

Is it delirium or clarity? I see you. I hear you. I feel you so cleanly. Words spoken through screens and with little symbols that represent words and feelings and ideas and hope! How odd…

For it to feel so real.

This must be a dream because I can’t recall anything so vivid.

But next time I will pick a place that is still serving coffee.

Lotsa love,

~Justice