...and me

I wake up to clearer mornings everyday,
and it keeps getting stronger,
this desire to not wake up as myself.
Its easy to drift away in broad daylight, then why do I return to myself by dusk...

Wanderlust;
you make me float above my head, even in the days where I'm trapped in the mundane.

More often than not, I start as a mist over my puffy eyed reflection.
I'm the slow dripping of water on a silence pregnant with the noises of a day.
A thick cloud of sand everytime the broom hits terra firma, an unconscious harbinger of whatever new might pass.
I float above the irrelevant banter over 'cutting chai' and Parle-Gs.
I'm a frail, cataractous, timid opinion with arthritic fingers.
I'm a new dream gleaming in the eyes.
I'm incense smoke floating above a dome, or a silent prayer on westbound breeze.
The patterns drawn on the floor by nervous toes, hope dripping from the i.v line,
aromas drifting off the freshly packed tiffin and the anticipation that shrouds it,
almost always.

I see a lot of my world and long for more, Only if it would stop pushing me away.
As the day passes on I try hiding from myself,
to escape the calling dawn,
this little part of my wandering soul is still a child somehow, desiring more adventures everyday.

I scurry around the electricity wires, on a sparrow's wing,
and hide inside a gem box smelling of time, or behind thick bifocals awaiting retirement.

I'm yet to disentangle breaths from longing and see where it started or even ends.
I feel it all pass beneath my fingers,
from the apologetic, 'I hope you understand's
to the desperate 'I wish I could's.

Like a mother, life pulls me back and there I lie pulsing in my neck awaiting a new day ahead,
and dreaming of the times when I'l float in melancholy notes of a nightraven's cry.