The luggage bags under my eyes

The sky stretches in panoramic view
grey clouds slowly inching their way through the air
letting the rain off their shoulders
before they evaporate.
Like the scene of an indie movie,
where I list off my internal monologue
that becomes external dialogue because the words are on my lips now.
The words are in the air now.
The words are gone now and I have nothing left.

I worry what will kill me,
when worry will kill me.
The unidentifiable dull stabbing pains in my chest
that feels like a blade with soft edges and rust gathering over it
being slid in between my ribcage.
I will use metaphors for things
I haven't felt,
and I will check WebMD three times a day to make sure I'm not dying.
I list the symptoms, the letters spill out onto the keyboard frantically
A page detailing cardiac arrest pops up
but apprehension wasn't one of the symptoms.

I catch a smile on my lips
when I think of old memories
while walking down the sidewalk.
Bony and slender hands outreach towards them and for a moment
I touch them.
My memories are like clay that hasn't been fired,
morphing and forming into something completely different
I leave fresh fingerprints behind on the small sculptures
and I'm the culprit again.

I pour the Pepto-Bismol onto my chest
and hope that the burning goes away.
The pink liquid eats away at the forest fires
that the blotched skin represents on my body.

We took telescopes to the sun,
eyes melt out of their sockets so that they are hollow.
Irises mix in a puddle of white on the pavement,
the color seeping into the gaps where stone has been eroded.
A pupil wavers in the mix
like the yoke of an egg;
scatter the eggshells
that compose the outer layer of my bones.

Eyes red
like in old family pictures.
The small white bar of space to label the date
is scribbled out with sharpie marker.

I lay down in the backseat
my body sprawled across the seats,
shoulders touching the cold metal seat-belts.

I close my eyes, the sun projects itself over my eyelids,
and everything becomes red and pink like flesh.
The car freshener that dangles by the rear-view mirror
is starting to fade away
like the streets do and like the scenery does.
It becomes a blur in my mind like a
badly taken picture.
My fingertips touch the ceiling of the car
and I imagine it's the sky.
A beige sky that is closing in on me,
and when they say they want to touch the sky
I tell them they'd regret it.

I'll be carrying the bags under my eyes around
for awhile.
And I'll count the rings around them
as if they are trees,
and see if the numbers add up,
when my years are slowly running out.