PUSH PULL

A low voiced

Hushed

Shushed

Wishing, whispered

Whipping

Wind pushed-pulled complaint

It began to scream along my skin

That I wouldn't take it

Or it wouldn't take me

Our biologies didn't match

We were propelled

And I was supposed to stay away

Painter's dotted art

Swept itself across the sky

My back met with a pink burning sun

My eyes found a lace-worked moon

His grey-faced features

Took a tilted look at me

Said:

"And why are you here?"