A painting in a trash can
of a woman with lovely skin.
She holds in her hand a paintbrush
that creates the worlds she's in.
The years make him cold, and
the man who she belonged to
no longer hungers for.
For the great heights of triumph,
to the rivers of the low.
In the rubbish she sits,
a queen on a garbage throne.
Out side the streets are quiet,
the rain drives all inside.
A silent moment in a world,
for which a painted tear,
she cried.

I wonder how astronauts feel when they return from space.
Do they miss the weightlessness?
To glide so effortlessly would be a ballerina's wet dream.
Perhaps they go skydiving,
and when they do they close their eyes
and block out the wind in their ears,
and just for a second, it's almost like they're back.
Do they line their floors with trampolines,
and bounce from room to room?
Although, going to the restroom would be hard.
And when they dream they get excited because they are back in a rocket ship.
It shoots to the stars, but before they can break through earth's gravity
they awake, back in bed.