im getting lost in your curls

id like to watch this heat lightning from a rooftop, that is so like all of us, it gets hot and then it cracks.

id like to feel the ease and sinking and cool, serene and swish of blueish strands of grassy, dirty ground and not wear shoes, not wear society anymore and not have to say a thing

id like to take you the stream; to curl up in those cold, hard cylinders; those underground tunnels underwhich the crisp river and scampering water insects, bug-eyed (extend gangly limbs), fly by. where no one from the road sees, except the mosquitoes

id like to sing with horrible, honest voices and boyish laughter and snarky history jokes

id like to not shatter, but float

i didnt take the picture above but im using it to demonstrate... dandelions? is that what those are? ive been told numerous times those are that. but i always thought they were yellow, and you didnt wish on them.

i was driving by the field going up the hill and my mom commented on how early they had reaped the fields for hay already. this was fairly upsetting to me because i had wanted to take pictures in it. the field had previously been super saturated with these wishful puffballs- dandelions?- like the soft like fontanelle and all as infants' fuzzy craniums peeping out in time for spring. but then i thought about those huge mowers plowing into the grass, and those dandelions launching their whispy petals- petals? im not sure they look more like parachuters- fleeing, positively fleeing in anarchistic chaos. from their mother, from earth, from the green naivete of what they knew and the brown soil of something dirty- flung into the blue abyss and subject to a bitter fall to beneath tractor wheels, or to continue their luminescent curve upon the ribs of the wind under glimmering sun.

and i hope im one of those who can float.