I woke this morning tasting sweetness, and I rolled it over my tongue.
.
Tempted, I bit. The flavor, cracking into little splinters, tumbled off and stuck to pink gums as tacks to board. Still belonging to neither waking nor dreaming, I stood, bones clicking into erector set joints. I found that the steps of my feet left puddles, muddled with the color I imagine Dandelion Wine to be. I had, apparently, trodden over eggs, their yellow spreading ochre under cavewoman toes and shells piercing pink softness. These brittle outsides split and broke into china doll teeth, chewing tender flesh. My shining footstep ponds now turned to depths of the pretty stone-baby mouths and I howled as pale skin tore and the tendons of vanishing ankles snapped upward, broken cello strings. Now lacking feet, I fell and tripped abruptly into waking.
.
It was a bittersweet morning.
