Our skins and stubborn bones

There is nothing. Like it.
Starts low, feels low inside deep
between the fibers and the muscles.
An urge. Desire. Crawls up in slow chords
like an onyx dragon.
Whispering close to your throat.
Each exhale is a gift and is terrifying.
Nowhere to hide from the thought.
That you were born to rule.
This moment. Is your tree house.
Is your dark chocolate.
Is your
summer dance.
As you play with the idea,
color grows wild through your intentions.
The horizon line, blown out background.
Hope.
Comes in colors. Feels like colors. It remains when you close your wings,
still there when you open them.
Its on the inside out.
The part of your stomach that loves rain
and photographs of wild horses.
Because sometimes,
you also imagine that you are a horse.
That your life is about running.
The pleasure. And the weight of it.
The stumble. And the sex of it.
You feel it inside. Breaking your seams.
You were born for. Being here.
Here. This place.
The knowing.
That there is no lack of beauty.
Only how we touch it.
We live on the words of strangers, and
The rough licks of our memories,
tucked away in our shirt pockets.


Andrew Tipton