Make you feel like there isn’t a swift steady ticking from a ceiling fan you cannot turn off.
make you feel that there is a real reason to be up at these hours
Make
you
feel that you do not want a hand shoved down your throat so far as to grip slippery remnants of what does not really feel like you, an excavation of your caves like strip mining.
You remember looking down from a very high place and thinking about thinking about jumping, but mostly how the world is vast and terrifying and beautiful and in your chest curled like heartworm you are always afraid.
In your head, crouched like cancer, you want to give up. Give in to the wonderment of (if not the universe than) this very mountain. Fall yourself off cliff faces, circle rapids as if down drains, complete the microcosm of lichen very close as to the trees from very high. hard snow in final peaks you’d never visit in your now-body, prone to sliding, huge, yielding and unyielding to waxy blue sky, rather empty at your altitude, but far away your brother/sister, another volcano like you long dormant.
Give up your body.
Give up your hands, skin and eyes. Your brain’s sense of this earth as a discrete function.
Make you feel a mountain, love,
Make you feel cold.