there in evaporated spaces lies the winter and the summer

In the shower, I bend my head in silent forgiveness. What seems like a reign of tears travelling the length of my forehead, hanging onto dear life at the peak of my nose, out of control and down the curve of my lips, kiss my chin goodbye as if to say,

"we've heard your prayer."

I'm made of tears--we all are. I wonder if we could be swept away by the sky, evaporating into a light fog high in the lining of space's layers. Until we all pound together in unwanted friction, numb and so cold, we don't know who we are, or that we've become clouds, so heavy; and sometimes we are white, sometimes we are black. And when we call the night home, we fall because we are made of water, or tears, whichever one wants to call it, and we don't want to be friction, we just want to get away from all the lightning.

I wonder if I'll meet the sea again, the lakes, the rivers and tiny ponds that seem too naive to hope that they could grow because we all seem to shrink in the summer months. We evaporate because we are water, or tears, whichever one wants to call it. The sky begs to claim us, we raise our hands for it to take us. 

We aren't ever so certain are we? Even the iced over ponds break in the frozen winter months, you know those months that make you wonder if you are in fact living in an ice box. I'm surprised all our tears don't freeze into a permanent scarlet letter, in the shower, in our beds at night, walking alone in the streets, past the cars where everyone is but no one sees. Our parents tell us to be careful on the pond with our ice skates, they tell us to watch for the cracks because if you aren't feeling you could lose your grip and fall in and fall out. Maybe it's because they were us once, walking over it, daring it to break the only truth we led: that thin ice is strong like us because it has to be.

Nothing is ever so solid, so why do we think we are?

Hot water at night thaws our ice box hearts. We are amass with tears, and that doesn't mean we can't skate a figure eight like we used to, even in the summer months with our rollerblades. 

They say that the sky is heavy with gravity--it catches what needs be and throws it back. So what about our forgiven prayers?

I can't evaporate anymore though, I hope you don't either. 

(listen to this when reading: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBcknwgUKeU)