Soon.

My skin feels tight. 
And close, like a noose.
It's dry and pops when I walk.

So I've sat here, quite still 
And let my eyes roam free 
But my mouth's still too dry to talk.

The air, burning broad upon my back
makes me wonder what it looks like
for the winds shifted west so quickly.

Layers are made for falling, aren't they?
And blood for pumping strong. And weak.
I'll sit here quiet until I can no longer.

I'll have to move for the wind,
Yes, even if my skin breaks free
Like porcelain, like stars, like powder caked and blown.

I wonder what these sorts of wind will show me?
Now. 
Move.