I hope one day to be read
by a scholar
the careful counting of my lines
calculating their cadence upon some parchment,
it matters not

I hope one day to be read
by a child
swirled spirals capturing the margins as
she rewrites her own story over the words to match
the colors and dragons in her head

I hope one day to be read or
written on the back of some hand
a wishful keepsake for a day
inspiring some great thoughts
or little ones, at least–Perhaps!

Perhaps
I’ll never be read
by some insightful stranger or
inspire grandiosity at all

instead
conserve unspoken words
by ink to paper

--
c

Pleiades,
hot blue and extremely luminous.
From across the blackest ocean
seven sisters call, but
just three are putting out and
only one loves me.
That's okay...
She's been my favorite
since she said,
"It takes a mighty rocket
to pierce the night sky and
****** into space."
******* right.
I write my atheist gospels
using only the letters of her name.
I collect the relics
of long dead nova clusters
to construct The Grand Heart Emoji.
And if I never make it back to space
maybe one day
we can hold hands
in San Diego.

You are the Familiar
A caress on my shoulder
Warm breath on my neck
Soft kisses on my lips

You come to me in pieces
Visions
That leave me perplexed
and estranged

I close my eyes
and I see you
But the message is jumbled
The path, unclear

I open my eyes
And I can't remember your face
Or your name
I just remember your absence

I remember the hollow feeling in my gut
the way my heart aches
the constant pitter patter through my mind
always there, ever reminding

You haunt my waking hours
I crave for you
long for you
obsession bordering on insanity

When I sleep
All becomes clear
The knowledge pours in
I can piece together a millennia of loving you

But then I awake
and you retreat into the mist
my fingers passing through your hair like ripples in a stream
and as you came, so you will remain

Like a dream you were to me
and whether it was one night
a couple months, or 6 ******* years
you are still a mystery to me

It's weird. You go on living. The world around you moves. It's like every day. Every breath. Maybe that's what it is, what you breath. There is this feeling. It's almost like a flutter. Like the wold just tells you- "stop. Look at what I made for  y o u  I did this. Now do what you will with what I made". And you do. You take this, this feeling the world around you gave, and make art. The feeling, the
r u s h, it's indescribable. Yet here I am, trying to describe it. This art you make, this feeling that courses throughout your veins, it feels so real and yet it is so much more than this world. So much more that the sky above your mind, more than the ground beneath your feet, more than the blood running through you. How can something,this feeling,  be so much more than everything yet be nothing? Art. It is so beautifully composed, isn't it?

What is your dream?
I say to him across a worn out desk
And his eyes sparked
But he was shy
Hesitant
Slow
To open up about his
Most prized possessions
And as all fireworks go
One spark led to an explosion of words
And I became mesmerized  
As he shared
Every
Single
Dream
And basked in the vibrant life of this boy--
A dreamer
In a classroom far too small
In a body far too little
To contain such magnificent dreams