Pour Me a Cup.

Today I woke with the sound of little oceans tapping against the salty pane. I smiled and pressed flushed cheeks against the glass, letting the icy water shower my freckles with dew. I dressed quickly, clad in alabaster threads. Pure and refined. I walked across the sea this morning, grazing little puddles with leather soles. I held the great lakes of Michigan in my furrowed palms, caressing white-capped tides with gentle strokes. I drove to work in a submarine, bypassing sea animals and brushing waves away from the thick windows. Icy capsules slid beside my honey butter skin, and for the first time, I wished that I weren't waterproof. I wished that I were a gray cloud, encasing those little oceans. I wished that I could cautiously watch my rumbling cloud friends shoot lightning bolts from their electric mouths. I wished that I could tepidly wait for the rattling thunder, shaking drenched bones. Today is a yellow day, even though the skies are varied shades of ash. Thank you, darling, for making it pour.

Photo Credit: Flora Hanitijo