stick my nose out the window
and inhale until the sun
entered my lungs,
I also had to hold my breath,
let the sun mature inside me.
Then let it out slowly, like a balloon,
and say nothing. Wait for nothing.
To wait is not to love the sun there
but over there, in a place that doesn't yet exist.
And maybe it will never exist.
To exhale the sun. To leave my mouth open
until the last butterfly has
left my throat. To leave a beehive burning in
my blood.
