I was born too late

Acid-washed soul, dip-dyed, wrung and hung improperly. I swear, its too soon. to be reborn. Can I skip the now, go to After or Then?

I used to play dress-up for kings. Eat figs plump with possibility--an evening unraveling with satisfying clinks, flatware on porcelain, the slender arms of golden clocks sweeping fluidly 'round, never quite able to hug on the Next.

And I traveled, only to places I wanted to be.

Hid only from wind.

Carried with me only stories. I loved the color of things, of emotions. I loved black as I do blue, citrus and ruddy hues that burnt at the edges, transformed and revolved as the twist of a neck. Moving always, as time breathes, shallow but

impossibly deep, even in the most trivial of settings.

But the most ordinary, extraordinary. How easily we teach when learning. The universe exhaling, its rib cage shifting with a puff of déjà vu. Hasn't mama been here before? Am I not her, she me? We both wear blue and dance upon a cobalt highway found in the corridor of a rented cabin, the kind we always laughed about. 

King Louis of Vuitton, a god of sun, and reign and shoes.