YOUR MOUNTAIN

This is the dance of the moonbeam special, sautéed expertly to perfection, salted briskly and without warning. This is the page you had to finish, the dark alley of unkempt metaphors somehow holding your cerebellum as would a hobo hold his bottle. 

This is the last day before the last night before the last big heave and grunt.

Get your goes in now. 

This is your mountain of wishes laid out flat, a line molecular and satisfied, purged of the excess colors your grandma warned you about. 

Here is where you kept a key.

Here is where you kept a churning.

Here is where you drew a desire, a moment divided into a black canvas full of fireflies.

If you should decide to get back up: remain fierce, notice your posture, and always tip your server.