Color Desire

At night I am still a child.
My mind studies the day a million miles from my body's desire to sleep. Restless, weary, tied up and tied down by strained, stressed and knotted blankets- my eyes remain the amber attraction of floating particles, illuminated in a copper stream above my bed.

The cold smell of blue moon rays, piercing through my sheets, bursts into fruit flavored nostalgia.

The foggy lamp light outside my cold bedroom encloses the night in a hazy shroud, not unlike the spindly exhalation of a wet breath against a cotton candy sky.

Reaching toward the thick, smoggy light, my hand is precariously encased in saran wrap textured glass.

I bend and I fold outward,
downward,
toward the spongy landscape of cherry blossom grass and sparkling clean footprints, rising like Lego blocks and checkering the scene for miles.

I have yet to spot the luscious light of my first stirring.
A powerful, skulking form makes its way across my weightless, crayon-box path. A tremor seizes the tree to my right as the heavy night sky opens her mouth and swallows the mysterious mass like a left over bon bon.

Finally, I recognize the cinnamon bread light suspended before the cedar post, dropping crumbs of glowering embers, like a careless, cookie-munching child.

Thickly, I tear a portion, throbbing with life and breath and lust in my palms, just large enough to fill my mouth

open, warm, waiting.