In This Cave.

I feel calm.

The walls sit for a handful of minutes before they take their next turn.

I am silently shifting my weight from right to left, safe to hide my fumbling uncomfortableness away from the window that smiles cannot find me. The world beckons--but in your corner you escape.

It's insides leave you no less than wonder. Lungs of moss which breathe in slowly and exhale gently. That light breeze swims by your face, as you meander zestfully and lose yourself inside literature and adjectives.

If you listen closely, the carpet is rotating.

Your scarf blows perfectly and pretends to float as you test your makeshift cape. Better than red, as ominous as black, your winter sweater scarf stands on its own as you trek through green and paper pages. It's as worn in as the age that slept on it.

In this apartment, the walls bend and doors find their ways around.

You sit and think about this world and what else hides inside its fences.

Words and worlds.
Seen and unseen.
Light and dark.
Girls and boys.
Sex and love.
Tablets and Valentines.
Caves and apartments.

And then you choose to forget its bulk--how immense and complicated it is. You choose not to unravel its intricasies; instead--you find the nearest door.

Take a breath. Walk away. Paint your own portrait and then hang it on your wall.

Apartment or cave--whichever way you think about it.