Marche Grande

Even though I can't sleep I always beat the sun to bed at night. I look between the peephole crack in my curtains and watch the sun lay in his bed of blues and purples and pinks, ringed by a halo of pure and smiling gold. Then I see myself in my bed, cacooned in blue and purple and pink blankets like the sun, but instead of an angel's golden ring, my head is crowned with mascera stains on a pillow cried yellow. The cherry blossoms that reach and push up my walls close in on me while the hands on my door stretch open up in all of their charcoal beauty. I can't help but feel like speckled soil underneath the radiant nighttime march of the sun.