The cold air is fine.
I am fine, inside
this bedroom I am building.
Just through the double doors,
just one moment and
A blast of naked air
Strips me of my husk.
I cry,
now.
Not from any tears of my own, but
tears this wind gives me.
The gusts jostles and spirals
in waves, as I weave through
concrete.
Lifting, even straining my face
upward, there are stars: nothing but
little holes.
My knobby knees crack like music,
at the tea stained house—
with every Siracha night—
a tuft pummels the air
from me.
I’m swimming, even
wishing you could pick me up.
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