Look at the stars, look at how they outshine you.
At the place where the stars kiss the ocean I’ll meet you
In that cramped space between layers of lashes and chaos.
We all try to win at our own loss…
If I’m meant to be planning your destiny, who’s planning mine?
Seems to me the naysayer with no spine, yet he finds
No purpose has the piper but to play
So let him blow wind between his teeth, while we say;
Fathom me as constellations.
Create a symphony of your thoughts of me-
Is that all that will be left of me?
Most of us don’t know where we’re headed,
So mumble to me the way of yours,
Until the tips of my ears are reddened
The musician will play in the background of our dreams
Of summer days spend hanging from our wings
When all I’d want to do was to count your imperfections
So when you’d lay there solemn-faced,
I’d be miles away from your lemon-sour words-
Lost in the fields of hay, hair, and black birds.
If the edges of it never reach my eyes,
The ends of your sentences falling farther than I can reach,
Then let the grass stains stand as a testament to this poem
The brush strokes of our laugher, in its highest, unbiased form.
You laugh in flavors, I speak in spices
My words find me bland, and therefor deny me any delights
The ease at which my thoughts tumble from my fingertips,
Yours flow twice as fast, with the care of the mother who raised you
Grew and lifted you
Until you could meet me in this beautifully corrupt world
Where the cinnamon fault line of the cracks in your hands remind me
Of the tightrope we tread, balancing the bad and worse
On a planet where the great and good came first unfurled, and unspoken
I’ll find you in that moment of recognitions,
And all thoughts of murders with black crowing crowns will fade,
We’ll sit on our wire under Ursa Minor,
Watching our words bleed the stars gone, but not away
We’ll write our own story, one you can’t see, to believe
About mice hearing further then we could ever dream,
About the smell of the music you hear from the hill
And your shoes tossed aside long ago,
One by the mill, and the other in the river
Sometimes it’s better to run away,