Complimentary Lines.
Access to hidden places filled with tossed treasures. Access to higher aspects of self that contain riches aged and softened and comfortable. Handmade things. Glass and cool marble and hardened things. Fingering price tags though because even here, even here things cost.
Exiting through the back door. The stairs twist and change behind me, the way is blocked--inaccessible. I have turned my back and I cannot go back. It's like that although I am not saddened by this because these things were always mine. They will always be mine even when I can no longer find my way.
I stand at the lowest level and I can smell the color green. I can smell rich and lush and rain. This wet and fresh smell moves behind me, moves past me and I close my eyes as it washes the mold and neglect away. Brushes scrub and hands pull and the layers are removed, they are gone.
The yard is littered, in the darkened gloom of storm I see a line to the right, bright and glowing--glittery electric blue and silver shine from empty cans of Bud Light and brilliant shiny orange of ceramic pumpkins. Orange and blue--to the right glowing in the dark.
The house moves into me, from behind I feel it swell and touch my nape and whisper slick it slides inside. Which is really just me. I can feel myself entering this body and I open my eyes to look out from within. I can see my face in a mirror, still and grave. My hair is long, it lays against my back. My hand moves up and touches my short curls and this reflection of myself is still, she stares back at me and I blink. ...and I breathe him in, he is there, standing next to me. I see his fingers, long and delicate but nevertheless, male. They are splayed on the railing beside my own--short and delicate and female. I breathe again and feel the tugging ache. I am swallowed by it, I am expansive and implosive all at once and in my mind's eye I see my hands touching him, I feel his skin, I smell him. I feel his hair brush my face. I open my eyes and I turn to face him--"do you feel that?" I ask and as I exhale my question, softly spoken I share the images that have consumed me and I watch the pain slide from his eyes, down. It blankets his face, it settles on his mouth. "No. I don't." And I see it, he doesn't. And there is pain because he wants to. But he doesn't.
I close my eyes and shrink. I disappear into the dark. I am swallowed by this longing. It doesn't hurt. It just is.
The last thing I hold in my awareness is that glowing line of orange and blue shimmering, delineating, separating... leading to the water and then away, into the blackness, into waking.