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we are blisters

this feeling of being full
how water curls its sticky lip around the edges
of your mug in the morning when
there is no time for stillness,

whatever it means to be still.
I am moving because if I don't I might
forget that this is what it is like to
be alive

and we are raw, blisters, festering under
the Wednesday sun-- all at once learning
the contours of pain, which is to say none at all
because pain breathes flat and flighty,

and the hot viscosity of something akin
to happiness oozing at the tips of your fingers
where air gives way to space or fullness
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