its a motherfucking thing

when,
you slowly realize that the peices of
the puzzle are finally coming together.
when you realize that you are both
the ship
and the bottle
and the old man whose
shelf you're sitting on.
and you set your sails but
the winds don't blow,
there are only stormy seas
and a belly full of whiskey
there are only the times
when you wish for dry land
and to take your lovers lips and
hold her until the dead of morning
because there are still flowers
on the back of your fingers
and twelve tiny gods
sifting their fingers through your hair
and you throw the anchor to the glass bottom of a lifetime
and you slowly realize that you are both the
wall and the door
and the window
and the ceiling
and nothing is as clear as
seeing for the first time
and nothing is as pure as
this air resting in the bottom of a glass sea.