• The sky is a flannel blanket,
    That has grown so comfortable with age
    That it is familiar enough with each bend and curve
    Of the world,
    To be a perfect fit.

    You described your depression as
    A marble, rolling around on a bed.
    Under the covers,
    Using the folds like a maze to
    Self exploration.
    Weighed down.
    Trapped.
    Between a bed slat and the wall,
    Abandoned in a crevice
    Looked over in a wrinkle.
    Alone.
    Blissfully into the sun again-
    Still with the overwhelming
    Inescapable presence-
    Of getting sidetracked
    And lost.

    I listened, and I saw you stumbling around your life
    Behind a door labeled 104
    Trying to draw connections between
    Superheroes and charcoal cityscapes
    Industrializing fantasy until the parallel
    Fit into the space between your fingers

    Thinking of you under the same sky,
    A blanket wrapped around your day.
    Left under the covers.
    A warm, safe-haven
    Where you can sleep until
    You dream in black and white
    And the colors of your narcolepsy
    Become less tantalizing.

    Maybe we all have ultra egos
    That gather at the sidelines
    Like tiny muses… Shakespeare’s chorus…

    Maybe all of our stumbling fits into a complete dance
    And now all we need is someone to mirror it perfectly.
    Then, we’ll see what Clark Kent and the Empire States Building
    Have in common.
    Until their similarities fit like they were built to lace
    Their fingers through yours.