I'll give you my pen
if you draw the parallels
here between our lives.

If I were the rain,
I'd be dying to touch the earth,
cascading from nimbus clouds,
desperate to quench your thirst.

Yearning to bring new life
and glistening morning dew,
to a cold and arid place
where a garden never grew.

Today the sun may shine,
tomorrow may be the same,
but somewhere on the horizon
are skies that I'll reclaim.

I'd shower you with tenderness
and promises never untrue.
If I were the rain,
I'd be falling for you.

Longing through lonesome days,
supplicating the sun to set.
I anxiously await your arrival,
should consciousness concede to what I covet.

Only in fanciful fantasies,
in the delight of darkness,
and in our notoriously nocturnal nature,
have I ever happened upon happiness.

Give me the gift of your grace,
the spell of your sweet surrender,
and the temporarity of tonight
will flourish into forever.

In the day I may wistfully wander
halfheartedly and uncommitted,
but in dreams I know not the words
lonely or unrequited.

You are my moonlight,
the darker that my life gets,
the brighter you shine.

Astral architecture hangs on the balance of my once fragile mind, now unbound and open to the potential of the Penrose Stairs that I climb. Infinity, I thought, was an innate idea man was not meant to understand, because if the universe is in fact infinite, into what does it expand?

Standing at the precipice of epiphany, teetering at the very cusp of clarity, it came to me in a monumental moment of sibylline singularity:

It expands into itself.

The thought was too profound to perceive, too ravenous to be satiated. Could this be at long last, the answer for which I have waited?

I realized that consciousness operates under a similar uniformity: the brain won't outgrow the head, but the mind will outgrow the body, and our echoes will radiate across the endlessness of existence, for all our forgotten frequencies are oblivious to the concept of distance.

We are all limitless beneath the veil of this perceived reality,
but only there are we human, and only then are we free.

We both read our scripts,
but we're not on the same page.
You and I are just actors
who treat life as the stage.

We rehearse our lines,
but they're not what we mean,
for once lets break character
and call cut on this scene.

We could steal the show
if we rewrite the play
and end the charade
of this macabre matinee.

We've reached the finale,
there's no encore after all.
This is our shot,
our last curtain call.