This Ship Is Built For One

When I close my eyes, on my back, on my bed. I imagine that I am on a ship. The three narrow windows are the prow, cutting waves into the weed choked dirt, plowing steadily through our friends real boat, and then into the neighbors house. With my eyes closed, I am the captain and the conductor of this ship that sails through my veins. With my eyes closed there is only sky above me, and only sea below me, sharks and wales, lobsters and clown fish. I wind into marinas and slip through inlets, easing into the water with my scuba gear, sinking into the cool depths. When I spread my arms and reach with my fingers, I am an albatross. I sweep over highways and bridges, the wind current pulling my flight in new and interesting directions, the rain is like mist on my feathers and the sun is pleasantly warm. Lighthouses show my progress away from the land, the smell of salt beckoning me like an old familiar friend, the air pushing damply against my face. When I open my eyes, on my back, on my bed, the canopy dances above me in the air from the cooler, whispering secrets of next time. Next time.