I find myself waiting for the crash

I find myself waiting for the crash until I remember the crash already happened, and I check myself for wounds or blood and there isn’t any. I thought I had died and gone to purgatory, but it was only an eye test. Now, every time I move there’s a sound of cracking and breaking, which makes me think that my bones are grinding against the strain of this new eyesight. I should’ve asked for directions instead. Maybe someone can make coffee out of my pulverised bones. Maybe, under the earth, I can grow a flower, and bees will drink from it, bringing joy to the bee and joy to the coffee drinker. If I lay on the ground and ask the sky for a ride back, perhaps I’ll find bone coffee and bone flowers for myself, and finally know what joy tastes like in the mornings. I find myself waiting for the crash.