in your search for reasons, your quest for answers you gave me the end of summer; painted january from the window. and more. all i did was return with grasses caught in the upturned cuffs of my jeans, the edges of the hummingbird soft.
what will you think of me now? for months now a stranger. beneath the same sky we weave between the stars, dance in the light and dance in the shadow, and if we're lucky dance with giants. a mistake to believe that ghosts cast no shadow. but you are no ghost. there is no one from whom to seek permission. just be in it with nothing less than all your heart. scratched in the margins your empire of dreams, a collage of moments, things that quicken the heart. behind the lid of closed eyes where everything is waiting. more and more i talk with my hands. to feel it all, i think. i paper the wall with your letters, the marks left behind, a preoccupation with surfaces and what lies beneath. pressing my face close i can hear you speak. was it you? your voice pours in and paints me golden. i never knew of any promises pressed onto lips in the same language as that spoken by your open eyes. but i'll never know what it feels like to be back in your mouth, more than a name aflame in autumn glory.
would you have it any other way? can truth be defined as anything other than opinion? cross your heart and move in whatever way the inclination takes. the singular composed of a multitude trying to fit into a body a size too small.
who ever said the love of your life had to be another person?
like trees with their tangle of arms holding themselves close beneath a sky too low i envision you all wearing the crowns i created. white moths crashing at the window on a night like velvet undaunted they give themselves to the moon. the world reflected back at us. we are the moths, the trees, the singular composed of a multitude. it's too much and not enough and bigger than words, but we dance in the light and dance in the shadow and feel it all, i think.