BlueSomnium

It is starting to feel like that again Like nothing quite feels real And I am struggling to maintain that The things under fingers tips that feel Like solid things make sense But certainties feel like they are cascading Into the opposite direction Away from where my feet are landing; I was always so imaginative Never quite tethered to the ground It feels like the weight is fading Ounce by ounce and pound by pound The lack of sleep is coming back Not sleeping enough was always a fear Because sleep always grounded me Always made things around me feel more near I feel sleepless now Me without sleep is kind of frightening It all starts to ble

     you are cold              riddled with thousands of beads of warmth              I want to see every color inside of you, [to] reach the edges and realize there is no edge                            to become lost. Surrounded, [smothered], suffocated inside              inside any blackness                            I want to turn desert                            worlds into oceans, to              sink seeds into fertile soil and                            watch blossoms expand                                          from the patience of [finger tips]              soaked in {love}                                      

His eyes' lids fluttered, the sun had begun coming up slowly over the horizon in the distance.  It had just finally reached him, and the fingers of his hand craned out toward it.  It was too late to regret, too late to forget all the wonders of the world that had fallen upon his eyes, or upon his skin and even his ears rejoiced.  As the sun began to expand over the horizon, the pools of light caught the corners of his eyes and there was a blinding whiteness for a moment.  He closed his eyes. He could remember sitting under an apple tree in the middle of spring.  Above him dangled red globes of dappled sweetness, tiny spheres and he imagined

Neon green hue, it ripples through the water and climbs along the walls.  White-washed lime jade shapes spread along pallid skin, stealing away from the surface of creme, much like a butterflies wings.  Except she has eyes the color of carefully sculpted, sliced jade-stone.  Her white hair snipped short, looks like a mistake; the sculpted width of her shoulders, the muscled surface of her arms down to the ends of long stretched pillar like fingers.  The frayed ends of white, dancing driftingly above the green eyes, bangs playing, terracing the steps to the edge of a world that lays only inside the soul beyond the only doors that go where road