You never know
..and maybe you do. Maybe you do. This is cryptic for you and pure logic for me and no one can see what I know I'm seeing. "This mess we're in" I whisper; can you feel my mouth, can you imagine my legs?
It's under my breath, underneath my eyes, and even though my extremities are cold, my fucking body has enough heat to keep all of us warm.
All of us warm.
In the mid of night, I move to stretch my legs and find Pablo Neruda sitting at the foot of the bed, smoking a cigar. He crosses his legs in that European fashion, one loafered foot on the floor and writes with a pencil in a small notebook.
His hands are old.
He wears a crisp white shirt and a Fedora.
He smiles at me, but says not a word.
I think to write him into a poem and then remember that I have traded my words for six crayons, a paper lantern and the sound of tears and laughter.
..and I'm just a little crazy.
I don't mind, so neither should you.
"I'm preparing every part for you"
shh, it's only tuesday.
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