re·​fram·​ing, 3

It's black, as thick as can be while leaving something to frame. In its bright white center is more of the same. More of the same, like falling through the levels of Soul. Hockey puck, popsicle stick rims, concentric neon subframes spawning like ghosts in the Acheron. It's not pulling me; I'm not even falling. I'm moving. Gliding directly forward, limbs out of sight, out of mind. Curious but motionless, as I'm conveyed inward forever.

fire·​works

Some thoughts are like fireworks. From a fixed point they sparkle generously through a navy sky. And I watch them, taking notes like an eager young explorer. My eyes gleam, two children at a tree-lighting. Later, I open my notebook and see scribbles. "Looks like some sort of rocket," I say with confused, round eyes and a shrug. I know that they were beautiful while they were.

de·​cem·​ber

I'm taking slow, heavy steps, and the concrete is cracking underneath me. My torso is 3-point turning through the halls while my legs walk straight ahead. I'm singeing my finger when I hold the lighter to the candlewick. I walk in a direction and bounce from it like a pinball in a meshed wire forcefield. I hung the lights up late, because I didn't want to live in a college dorm. I'm sad when I listen to music, because I don't like it in the same way I used to. It's a new kind of like - a concentric swirling around my cylindrical core. I can't find the plunging, lifting, glowing, charismatic, nostalgic glitter shower. Damn it. It's all so "I need six eggs" Phone calls and recaps and secrets and "yes!" What about my body? He looks like he's 18, and he wakes up to Bing and silence. Sweet Corona, bah bah bah.