free write vii

when i fall back, when i fall back completely overcome. overcome with still, with still mists. when i fall back and feel the full weight of unbroken thunderclouds, cool, ready, waiting... i feel them on my face and chest as i fall back. and on the ground, as the whisps shoot past my ear, tickle round my neck,,, my mouth, my mouth will slack, it will open, and it will glow, and it will beam as stars, giant stars, giant innumerable prominences reaching, reaching across space, across the lazy, languid, thin space between here, between there. and my mouth will open and things will pour from it and run down my cheeks, they will run up my face and pool in the deep of my closed eyes. it will be golden, it will be honey, it will be luminous. it will take it;s time, it wil make it as it moves. but, i,,, but i will wake and i will wipe this from my face, let it fall. i will wash it with my hands. can i open my eyes here? is it bright enough. will i find them blind, my eyes? find them blind like hands reaching for rays of sun. will i find somthing on the air, can i smell you only inches away? i have dreams. i have dreams and dreams and dreams. there are places i wander, and it alls, it call out, only in echo, only in quaking whispers. it doesnt take much to knock me from the rail. i was balancing, one foot in front of the other. but it comes like a gust. like a swift push and im falling from words. im falling from open eyes. and im falling to the ties. to the tines. that wrap them selves, the fingers tying knots in your hair. in your mane. and i will fan them out i will display them for a collection. i want this enough. i wonder if i can tell the truth, if it comes out as some other language, can i find the breath to move these lungs? i question, i question. i wish for this and that. i wish for your pain. i wish for your broken limbs. i wish for your sick and your death. so that i can come. i can come with holy palms, so that i can find the magic to heal you. to stitch you up and mend your bends. i wish for, i wish for. i wish for voices calling me. i wish for nightmares. i wish for overturned cars and poison meals. i wish for empty beds and long drinks. long drinks in the long still night of middle age. and i can be the condensation you wipe from your glass, the liquor you draw out with your finger. i can find my self running to your palm. meeting your breath as you clasp them (your fingers) in your mouth. i can be the ice, crumbling in your scotch. i can be the pulp in your gin. i can be the last sigh (the last gish) before you finally slink back, tumble back into waves of sleep. it takes us all under. and i find, more and more, that i run out of things to say. that i find myself turning circles. but i but i but i could be, i could be the pall, the shroud that covers you and keeps you. i could be the undone. i could be the tomb, and i could be the stars watching you turn to ash and calling you home to dance under the proscenium of dust and other unborn stars.