Perhaps we can meet again one day,
when our souls have grown
and the wind is kind.

"There's this myth,"
the wind exhales softly,
close to my ear.
"That every millennium,
a child is born right when the stars blink.
So, stardust flutters to the ground, granting the newborn the gift of the words—
of liquid gold.
The child grows as the Earth turns, largely unaware of what burns inside. Only when she comes of age and stardust begins spilling
up her throat,
out her lips,
and through her eyes,
does she truly know—
only when she opens her eyes,
shining with celestial dust,
to see galaxies
does she know."

I would have loved
(to have known)
her
when the sky was light
and the days were warm.
I would have loved
(to have known)
her
when we could have survived
on just the lazy summer rain.
I would have loved
(to have known)
her
when she was more than just
melancholy.

I exhale words onto the page,
able to breathe once more
without them clogging my throat.

A brutal hand tightening on your throat,
Constricting your vitality and voice,
Whispering in your ear, taunting,
“You need only
Ask me to let go,
And I shall.”