Plaster rained from the ceiling
imitating snowflakes -a
snow storm indoors- swaying
as the AC roared from its
vent, powdering what sits beneath
in a thin cover of
white.
Resting in my hair and
skin -it seems I've been
grayed- and lingering
with the dust
choking my
lungs.

Dancing with the floor
under their
feet and the
roof above my head,
loosening what should
remain permanent;
they make icicles
of sound form in
my small apartment
-the music is so
very loud- and
I'm covered in
the snow they've made
fall.

And I thought we couldn't
take the role of Mother
Nature and play God
with the seasons.
They've proved me
wrong.

I can't see them, but I
can't look away.

Kinetic Intoxication;
drugged on their own
dancing -it's just
the way they move.

I'm standing, ankle-deep,
in the plaster snow, and I'm
shivering.
I'm cold.