Rain falls in Brooklyn. I touched the cracked sky and a leak sprung loose. Quite inside my loft, drinking tea. Loud tricolor feather earrings that look like zebras work their way through my fingertips. Hot pink, yellow, bright blue. A prism of ideas cracking and sharply falling, like icicles, within my reach.
Blue antique lace, pale and beautiful like an antique child, resting on a red dress form. Colored like scarlet veins in love. Dreams and ideals paint my eyelids when they flutter shut. Plunging forward I take a breath in. It chokes me and I cough backwards. Some shy and shrink in my shine, and it hurts me, but not as much as the love that I feel when I create. I don't try to shrink others. I just want to touch other peoples things. I only want to create using my own hands.
Blind, thirsty, I try and ignore the shrinking violets who I adore, and let go of all ambitions other then those of antiqued children and beautiful tricolor icicles. I draw pictures and paint with pastel feathers as I reach forward, grasping at that prism of rainbows that I know exists somewhere between these silvery drops. Licking down that red dress form, to kiss a child on the cheek, like antique teardrops.
Rain continues to fall in Brooklyn. It is quite today.