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I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head. —W. B. Yeats, “The Song of Wandering Aengus”
if you’re not with the book you want, you might as well want the book you’re with.
His words and the way he’d looked when he said them shivered under my skin and stayed there like poison.
Behaving the way we had to to get by, while hiding a core that was a mystery even to ourselves.
A line of moonlight ran like a thin white road from the crown of his head down his back. The longer I stared at it, the more it made him look like he was splitting in two, revealing something shining beneath his skin.
My mind was an old cassette tape that kept being recorded over. Only wavering ghost notes from the old music came through.
“Look until the leaves turn red, sew the worlds up with thread. If your journey’s left undone, fear the rising of the sun.”
This new world was too strange, too lucid; it made my mind explode in a dandelion puff. Everything had a revelatory crispness, like a new day seen through the lens of a coffee-fueled all-nighter.
