I want to go to the mountains. By Summer or Winter, I’d escape to a log cabin, not far from the town that bustles below (but far enough to see it all from my balcony, or the steps on my porch), faintly whirring with life by evening, an orange glow from softly-lit streets, in the haunches of rock and god-like awe.

Not looming, but beckoning, daring me to scale its walls, stand atop its barrier and see for miles that complex scape; a skyline forged by inner strife, and carved by weather’s temper.

In the town I’d sit with locals, drinking coffee by day and beer by night, relishing the dizziness of thinner air, and shuffling home by moonlight.

Smiling as I bury my head in a feather pillow, I remember the girl, smiling too, behind the bar. Maybe tomorrow I’ll buy her dinner.

The air, myself and time alike, all seemingly stand still. No wind, no walk, no tick n’ tock, no great escape or thrill.

So many loves have brushed me by and all have left their mark. The lightest, bustling, playful air still etched upon my heart.

I’ve been confined to water for so long. It’s time to change. I’ll need the aid of passion’s air to lift me from these waves.

Come whipping winds, sweep left, sweep right and carry me from here. I’ve spent too long just watching time; my eyes too dry to tear.

So catch me in your freest hand and throw me way up high. I’ll soar like leaves caught in your breeze and, like the birds, I’ll fly.

Why do I force upon myself evenings of incapacitation, drawing close my eyelids as I wade through heavy haze and discover lonely melancholy.

So much for a lazy Sunday; naked but for joggers that desperately need a wash, but couldn’t make it to the pile of dirty laundry – for what am I to wear all awhile they tumble?

So much for its relaxing effect, when all I crave is something, someone, to excite my every nerve, and pull tight these muscles in a passionate struggle, to fire and fall like the waning flame, only then to truly relax, filling the mould, and setting.

Too early for bed, but too far gone, drugged to a state of aimless wonderings that yield little in the way of productivity, and whisper of things left undone.

I push through my hair, in the way you used to, hoping to scrape from there the excess thought that burdens my heavy head.

Swigging but for the sake of something to do, you’ll find me here, deadened to invigoration; if you’ve something to say, please, say it now, for though shackled and cuffed by lack of wanting, for what it’s worth, at least, you’d find an honest answer.

Deliver me affections that I may eye and draw upon to soothe my heart’s afflictions,

and feed me not the colder kind that binds my skin to icy claws, and finds me thin upon the floors of Friday-night addictions,

and were I home with you tonight I’d fight the cold with kisses.

Keep me from my lesser slumber, poor and pale beside the wide and bright awake one could mistake for dreams; though they may blunder.

Write for me a greater chapter, the black and bare could not compare nor dare dethrone me from my stature; the future’s mine, and I’m the captor.