I wonder if a word
can heal a wound.
But where will I find
a word with a circumference
as vast as that
of the wound?

A spare wind swaying somewhere afar;
a lone tulip dancing under the midnight stars;
your electric glance and warm embrace;
my racing heart and blushing face.

It will bloom every flower,
it will warm both east and west.
Yet it cannot bloom a heart,
inside of my chest.

When my aching heart ached in excess,
I sought out to sleep, dream, escape.
I found myself in the land of the philosophers;
Greece.
But perhaps it looked nothing like Greece,
for I haven’t visited the country to ever know.
But upon its heavenly resemblance,
I was washed ashore.
I remember the sand as soft ivory,
dancing under my feet.
But pay no attention to the sand,
for something else had already caught me.
The sky.
God in disguise, I tell you.
Wrapped in the wildest hue of violet,
with the drape’s silky edges tucked into the horizon.
The color was deep and passionate in every way,
it intoxicated the evening with  its romantic cologne.
And upon that sky,
lie God’s silver angels.
The stars constantly winked,
praising the earth,
in repetitive bangles.
But not alone.
The moon was its fullest on that night,
and so it wasted no time,
it beamed  in bravado,
the strangest white.
I sat quietly,
listening to Greece sing its gentle yet enigmatic song,
silently wishing that this is no fantasy, and that I am not wrong.