On Tuesdays, I think about climbing mountains.
I will climb up again with spikes on my boots
and motive on my heart. Clean blue ice echoes
an eagerness as a steady faucet drip seeps down
the crystal canyons. Fresh drinking water for my
parched mouth – I’m sweating, and it’s 20 degrees
again. Gripping cliffs of clouds, I slide and maneuver
my path. The air is brittle, and I’d break it with the sharpness
of my words should I dare talk. The wind whips my lips
sealed, and I am left with nothing other than my ability
to bask in the glory. The sun tans my olive skin, and my
ego shrinks to a size that can humble the path. There
are people around me, but I am alone. I am alone with my
thoughts, yet I exist with the mountain, for its immeasurable
confidence to draw breath from the clouds gives me oxygen.