floating sunlight

underneath the table is floating sunlight that doesn't move anywhere.
but stares at the weeds growing next to the streets,
and their whispering to you, coaxing you in to thinking it's safe to let the sunshine be poured onto you through a flask
you're glittering.
and the hum of the wind is sewn onto your skin,
and butterflies catch your breath.
but you don't like it, and you scream with a voice soaked in derangement.
you scream so loud that the mouths of fire places begin to dig their roots into your scalp.
and like wind and waves,
they swell and blow over you.
but you are still, and soft.
sitting in a chair, at the table that is home to the floating sunlight.