Clouded Room

He sees himself from different corners of the room. From low against the door. From high against the ceiling. Peeking from behind the dresser, the couch, beneath a pillow. From inside the television. He sees himself in the mirror and leans in closer than he ever has before - face touching face - but he's not exactly sure what he's looking at.

He sees himself in ways he never needed to. He sees himself from the steering wheel. From the power lines whipping by. From the horizons and the places on the other side of the hills.

He inhales a cloud and it tastes like cotton candy.   

Press against me, watery air.

He sees himself from the pine cone on the forest floor, rolled flat and covered with a season of debris.  From a plane.  From the blue painted on the restaurant wall.  From inside a sneeze floating in slow motion across the room.


He sees his words as shapes like a mountain ridge.  He sees his left hand from his right hand. He sees his feet from his back.  He sees his body through the blood flowing through him.  From shooting stars the size of suns.  

Press against me.