The Wind

did the wind ever catch you sleeping?

alone like a cordless phone off the hook, where's the charge 

beyond the imaginings of the long-haired girl standing in the open rain wondering, wondering, wondering

what?

wondering if it was true

if it was true that the cold of a cozy bed in the middle of a warm December night was anymore than a dream

or if the person she spoke to was a figment of her imagination 

because human is a hoax, each from the same source like every fallen leaf floats from the same tree

so would that not mean that the entire universe is just 

one

great

big

schizophrenia?

or, is it the happy clutches of a child in want of your embrace that reminds you of the sad clutches of a child in want of your embrace?

because the sun doesn't go down, it goes around

and the moon isn't half, nor the stars just a spec

nor a grain of sand just a grain of sand because a cosmos is a cosmos no matter how large

small

or mildly tasted like a long-shot espresso will never taste a tongue

can the words ever really tell you much more than the words? 

if a cosmos is a cosmos, the words will tell you the cosmos

the cosmos, the very essence of the sweet silk and the clammy touch of a lover after a rainy winter walk

the warming of the lips upon lips 

or the clamp of the seven AM alarm 

a great big 'fuck you' to many, a reminder to 'wake up and love' for the lucky

and the wind; the dastardly, beautiful, realist wind!

where was I when you always arrive?

so I'm asking you 

look inside of yourself and think:

did the wind ever catch you sleeping?