The Sand to my Eyes

All tangled up with little kisses on the back of your neck and nothing but the smell of saliva on skin in my nostrils.

I awaken suddenly to the sound of a garbage truck in reverse outside, drool on my arm, and the realization that she’s not actually there.

In feeling for someone more than a thousand miles away, I experience my chest stretch the full distance.

I think of her in simple moments: in the nudges of strangers on a sidewalk, admiring the colors of campus in the fall, or making mac and cheese and just getting stoned in my bed.

I’ve never slept well alone but something tells me she might hold a key

Like the sand to my eyes 

Or the tea to my table

It feels like a deprivation of resources made completely available.

Waiting to see her is like looking out the window and waiting for nature to just reveal its grand, all-encompassing purpose

When there’s no steps to take to advance the process.

Powerlessness is an invasive species and I have an infestation on my hands.  

Keaton Goodman