if I could write poetry

today I walked home in a fog

thinking about concepts like real and imagined and the constructions in between that keep us from spinning into the atmosphere. gravity. gravity. wondered if you’re right. if love isn’t mostly about meeting a necessary and specific level of narcissism. if my own personal version has been skewed to encompass the ego rather than the soul. how much of life is a fiction that we create in order to avoid going crazy?

maybe i’ve forgotten how to believe in things that are real.

when i passed a woman watching from her yard, I spread my arms out to the side, threw back my head, looked at the sky, and walked straight through her sprinkler as it made it’s raining arc across the sidewalk. her laugh rang in my ears for miles.