The things I see

This bed is hollowed for my bottom. The straw on which I lay does not itch my bare back. My thirst is clawing need that shuts out the cacophonic calls of my body. The things I see. Someone asks which parts of the journey were worth something. Almost none, I rasp. I think I wave my arms. There is cooing, and I hear music rushing long and slow like the wind under the weight of the midsummer sun. My whole life was spent here. Another question I ignore. I purse my lips for to kiss.