Eye of the Storm Works

Nothing ever changes

Breakfast

I watched his thoughts swim through his eyes, in oceans of fresh milk he would never be able to cross. Listening to the he snap, crackle and pop of his feelings made me smile, flickering ever so slightly in his stare. Scenes from movies I’m not meant to see, but I suspect I am in them. The cue cards blank for now, but the props are all in place. And I would most likely suffocate on my lines if I had to say them now. The dialogue lost to my closed-captioned heart. It seems I'm always deaf when it comes time to hear what isn't being said. Always mute when it's time to tell them.

What I'm thinking.

All the casual dilemmas, like how close we could get. All the frail ironies, like how far away we really are. That calming chirp of crickets outside my window and inside my head. The weight of the air before a storm. The night clicking its heels, trying to leave oz.

There really is no place like home, when you have one.

I wish there was a way I could be saved without having to be rescued. That little girl in her brother’s faded red shirt. The more lost she is, the better sometimes. Peeking in every window with the lights on.

Both hoping and fearing, someone might invite her inside.