We wait until your parents fall asleep before we clamor out your bedroom window — hardly a grand gesture in a bungalow, but the feeling, God, the feeling is a low, delicious tingle somewhere just above your tailbone that makes all your hair stand on end and your joints feel just a bit like they’re melting. We’re twelve years old, and we don’t even go anywhere, because that’s not the point, damn it; the point is, we could — we could. There’s no sound, no creaking doors or lights flicked on, no acknowledgement at all that we are no longer huddled safely in our sleeping bags on your bedroom floor. We could leave. We could disappear.
We settle in the grass, the blades brittle from the summer sun, but damp in the late-night humidity. In the silence, only crickets, and the soft knocking of moths, battering their wings against your screen door. The sky is limitlesss, and we lie in breathless silence, momentarily overwhelmed by the boundlessness above us.
Within us as well
Vast unexplored expanses
Thrill and terrify
This poem was written for OctPoWriMo, and is once again in the form of haibun (prose poetry followed be a haiku). The month is winding down, but feel free to jump at any tiime if the mood strikes.