Some Days

Some mornings, far between, your legs take on a life of their own, and say, "we've got to rest". 
On those days, get gentle if you can. Listen, and say, "Okay. Tomorrow." 

Some days, your ribs take on a life of their own, and say, "there's not enough air in here". 
On these days, open the door and find the air. 

Certain hours, your heart is nothing but a floating house, inside of you. It has no doors and the windows are dark. It's a mystery house, and you sneak around its edges, curious and cautious. 
In these hours, sit and wait. A curtain flutters. 

Some midnights, you wake and can't shake the dream that held you breathless. What have you done? 
There's a dead body, and a highway, and an envy that wraps you like tightening wire. 
These midnights, feel the warmth of the bed, reach across the space, find the other being who sleeps beside you. Spread your palm across his back, which is solid ground, which shakes you free. 

Some summer evenings, you go swimming in a lake so calm you are guilty over breaking it, pushing outwards into its heavy depth. 
On these evenings, give up your guilt to the water, and know that it takes it all from you willingly. 
It washes you clean of the midnights, the things you've done, the breathless body, 
the house that is your heart that is sometimes unknown to you.