the ghost forest of the launch monkeys has grown silence and still. no more countdowns. not here anyway. as my eyes adjust to the darkening green, my pupil begin to dialate. they slowy blossum until the iris disappears all together and still they dialate even more. i stiffle a giggle, thinking i am becoming a Keene painting.
inward i begin to fold. and restructure. blossum and bloom. glorious hues of isolation, glimmering shades of melancholy and loss shimmer outward as i open and my petals unfurl. a giant white orchid with bits of bandage and song woven around my stamen.
slowly, i face upward and wait. all launch monkeys wait. t minus now and counting.