Do you ever peer through your bars?
And look at the trees in the light?
And wonder how they change?
Do you ever stare out the window?
And watch the colors reflect?
And think, does everyone see colors like these?
How do you describe the shiny translucent orange of a sunset?
Or the frosty blue morning, pale like the inside of an eggshell?
How do I describe the pink bomb washing over my windowpane
And spilling inside of my room and inside of me?
How do I make you know how it feels to be suffocated in pink,
drinking it down your raw and dehydrated throat, in your plush green-velvet chair?
How do I show you how I see the world, so different from you?
How can I open you up to how vast and quick and everlasting and exuberant and extravagant and horrendous and desperate and cavernous and frigid and gaping and moldy and scraped clean and quiet it all is, when I’m afraid all you see is countdown timers and dull edges and medical blue.
I see universes in the white sheets of a pirate ship, and sometimes it gets to be so much that I can’t even get out the story I came to tell.
I get lost in the other one, calling my name, just over there. Just down the street.
Just around the bend.
And I’m suddenly drowning in my coffee cup, swirling down the toilet. I’m a Rubik’s cube with all the pieces moving at once. I’m sesame oil on lo mein, I’m fat on a chocolate bar, I’m the tannin at the end of a glass of wine. A soft smile of red-stained teeth.
Just like you were once.
How can I help you experience the world in these vast swathes, the ones I’ve seen only for a moment, but in those moments, an eternity.
How can I tell you without crying from how big it all is.
Well, I guess I can’t.
Because you already did and saw and enjoyed and grieved, and decided,
it wasn’t enough for you.