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Bottle rockets.
They say the human condition is unique
nobody ever experiences the same
fireworks in their chest at 2:42 am
while pirouetting in the living room.
Recalling ballet lessons from nearly
two decades passing.
counting out the positions.
one, two, three and four.
To keep the heady mists of
emotional upheaval docked on shore.
So I can lay back and watch the
waterfalls of green and purple
fall against the velveteen back drop
that is my thighs.
I fall.
Listening to the explosions in my chest.
one, two, three, four.
