at the edge of the day after talking about middle school.
hold it in your hand like a newly pressed jewel. A rounded sea-glass, that once tumbled down your vein into the memory of the sea. Fingers curling, palms deepening, wrist weak and shaking, the air now volatile and twitching. Hold it. All that flows around you has made it smooth and certain, lips gliding over the surface, kiss back every knuckle that caressed your face. Turning between your eyes, on the bridge of your nose, a migraine pulsing far behind. Open your eyes to it. Hold. Learn to stone skip. Paint your bike glittery black. Look for the way the clouds change when you blink. Try to see everything that passes when you're sleeping. The stars, the night, the sun crawling slowly like a glowing spider on the wall of blue. Use your hands. Use your feet, harden their soles, pounce when you walk. Yes, sometimes you won't notice the edges sharpen and glitch. Yes, sometimes holding it will hurt you. It never means to, just the vessel is so tight and so much is there to show yo...
