Somewhere in the midst of a humid air, I nestle on the floor. My skin is crinkly, I flap sporadically in the gusts of man made breeze, which spill from the little retro fan nearby. I hear it rattle, rattle, all night long. If only I could reach it, but I have no limbs.
I am but a body, a blank unbound canvas, an unwritten story, a life not lived. No one but me knows I see or hear, so quiet I remain, if not for my gentle flapping.. in the man made breeze.
After swimming in a rich brown ocean, I came up for air. Now I find myself on a plastic sheet, basking in the great wide open, waiting to dry. My skin changes, from damp to coarse.. to silky soft. Only in the latter of the stages, do I feel fingertips run over me; their energy introducing me to all I will be...
...a tea stained page of reverie.
Reverie, not mine;
A breath from another.
A pause, with ink or lead;
A reminiscing or future dream.
With other pages I gather, we are bound as one.
Then dressed in old leather,
We'll stay this way...
Until another time's undone.