I wish to dissolve my own ego,

It is the only and most pervasive thing to ever exist.

I want to watch the world through eyes that are not my own.

Is it not unfair that I cannot experience the earth the way the wind does?

I can only feel it on my skin

and search for the few words to tell you what that is like.

I do not know what it feels to love me,

nor do you know what it feels to touch you.

To be everything and everyone at once,

unfair it is that I cannot.

And so small as I am I must try my best to be a part of it

like playing phone tag

on an open highway

waiting for cars to be her backdoor.

when does running become impossible

and when will she stop getting motion sickness

from his words?

spoon fed tasteful senselessness

such that it eventually goes down.

he is not for her

he does not deserve her minutes

yet like a dog with a stick she returns

again

and again

and again

until she is drunk on dizziness.

he cuts corners

into paper snow flakes that look like a perfect storm.

in silence she has always known he will never love her the way she wants him to.

picture perfect pieces in a waiting game of broken clocks and upturned calendars.

endless, yes it is

yet under some folds of time its close has already come.

it is 3 pm somewhere and in some world I have seen what lies before us.

I pictured perfect days and pristine nights

I pictured you were perfect

for I was simply mistaken and I am simply pushing pawns the only way they may go.

wrong was I to have pictured perfect.

I’d like to write letters to the woman sitting at the end of her road,

remembering what it was to be born and stretched under the summer sun.

I’d like her to find amusement in my nativity

and write back in rhymes of how her palms grew so worn.

I’d like learn what exactly what made the smile lines beside her eyes so deep,

and her voice so sweet.

I’d like to learn how she lived like she had nothing to lose

until she had nothing left.

She’d say:

feel it all,

high and low alike.

Listen deep,

before you…

If ever, oh if ever.

If ever there were a word to lay down to tell you what I am thinking.

If only you knew before it had been said.

When and why did you forget how to pick through drowsy poppies and lay

in the field naming cumulus clouds?

You, clever you are

and plagued with plenty and pain.

Oh my dear for it is all too much,

and forgive me for calling you selfish.

Oh if only you could see how we are all hurting —

blinded and bruised

beaten and battered

trying

so try as we are.

The sound of rain,

or wind,

or crickets,

or quiet cars

is perfect chatter to talk my ears to sleep.

Odysseys of long days and sore feet,

particularly breaking backs.

Tales of tricky battles on well trodden ground.

Loves had and lives lost —

simply gossip of the day.

And into the air we whisper wanders

of when and where we lost it all.

Yet even with such subtle words,

each night they send me on.

So in the sound of rain,

or wind,

or crickets,

or quiet cars,

on worldly tales, I shall drift off.

The night of January 26th was so cold that I couldn’t feel my feet until the next morning. As I lay in my sleeping bag beside the mouth of a canyon, I could see the moonlight dancing off frost that lined the bag, and the only part of myself I allowed to be exposed to the elements was the skin from just above my eyebrows to just below my nose. Sacrificing warmth, I let my cheeks get rosy so I could spend the night gazing at the stars. While my eyes were glued to the heavens, the girl in the…

Confession:

I don’t know much, but paper thin days begin to feel familiar, and when the pile up becomes too high I forget its even there.

Confession:

I forgot to water the plants this morning. So this afternoon I figured I’d make up for it by using the whole pitcher. And so when they leaked all over the floor I used your t-shirt to clean it up.

Confession:

I don’t know where to go. But I must tread lightly, for I might just crack my own chest, and each piece will slip away until I’m drowning in my own lungs.

Silence seems to settle in broken down buildings.

With stain glass windows that let words in the same way

light drifts through kaleidoscopes into youthful pupils.

These streets have resolved to simple footfalls from empty bodies

We have grown.

Our world is dissolving from everything familiar,

and I am just selfish enough to resent it for going on without me.

Will the street lamps still light when we are no longer here to

watch them come on?

Like a snow globe in the hands of a child,

white wanderings and whispers is all that is left of the town

for…

If I stand on a point in the middle of the ocean,

miles above the waves,

will the wind still touch me there?

If you and I follow the line between day and night,

will we touch the hem of eternity?

Truthfully,

the wind can creep into the most quiet of spaces and night is inevitable.

I curse the hands of time because they hold the remote to this motion picture

and I cannot pause, rewind or fast forward.

It will not speed up upon my request,

or slow down upon my demand.

But still it passes,

still it passes,

Zia Foxhall

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