Senses

I should be sleeping. I've been so tired today that I can barely think in my own language, can barely formulate words in my own consciousness much less promote them to the tip of my tongue. I can't, though. I'm not sure why I can't other than the fact that I keep thinking, imagining. I close my eyes to sleep but images keep me awake. I hear music. Feel the cool breeze on my bare skin as I sleep under the stars. Taste the crisp burst of a Ranier cherry on my tongue. I watch as the stars swirl behind my eyelids. I enjoy the sight of my arms in the mirror as I go through the motions of port de bras in a warm studio with a wooden, rosin stained floor. I'm walking in The Louvre, standing atop Notre Dame, eating a croissant while reading Sartre at Café de Flore. I take in the scarlet hue of Le Coquelicot while licking a wayward drop of the latest Beaujolais Nouveau from the lips of my own Han Solo. Steal a kiss from a stranger at The Menger Bar.

I enjoy tapas and a bottle of rioja with friends. Enjoy an evening of laughter at the Davenport. Spend a day in the Bodleian Library. Sing in a bar in Italy. Stand amidst the Swiss Alps. Daydream in the Roman Forum.

And then the music stops. I am back on earth. Back in Lubbock. And I breathe in and out and accept this as my stay for now.