#processpirate: October 2, 2017


i wonder if i imagine the chorus of sweet peas when i awake,

or the smell of the neon green sun rising on the bay,

or the salt of the cold rain through my bare arms.


until one day i find you lying on the couch beside the woman

who can see so deeply into your soul that she must be a witch,

and she holds your head in her gnarly fingers.


you gaze into her voice,

and i know you also feel the lightning over the Grand Canyon,

that dances like it doesn't even know you're there.