May 2015
I can’t really say whether or not you have stars in your eyes, but I would like to formally inform you that galaxies reside in your smiles. Yeah, I know, pupils create parallels to black holes and irises of all hues can, when looked deeply upon, create constellations and similarities to stars long since dead, but
I don’t really think much about your eyes, their shade or their size, because I’m too busy basking in the sunshine that is your ever-present smile. You’re happy. You’re a child of light, and the sun can only ever be swallowed by eyes so you must stare-- how else could you ingest enough electromagnetic waves to radiate more than our residential system star? You’re a flower, synthesizing and using outer space to create the kind of sugar that must somehow be contagious, ‘cause here I am, feeling sickeningly, disgustingly sweet.
I find myself a kindred spirit of the ocean, because we are both called by the motion of the moon, but you are called by the stars. I’m a moonbeam to your sunshine, just a reflection of your spectrum but at least you’re helping me shine.
I didn’t intend to write poetry about you, but you’re so set on resetting my negative mindsetting sun that I can’t find the energy to get angry about the twelve million tangible social issues that currently control this century life. I’m a creature of night yet somehow I’ve started to look forward to long days of sunshine, and it might have something to do with the nickname I’ve given you, Sunshine.
So, yeah, you have galaxies in your smiles-- but those galaxies have stars that flood up to your eyes, because there are universes in your lungs and black holes in your brain swallowing up the negative space, which is a paradox to say but you’re full of those, aren’t you? Your veins are made of stardust that came from wishes prayed up to ***** of gases and energy that are actually too many light years away for the words to ever reach. We watch the stars silently because it’s just a funeral procession, a speck in space that once had possession over life and creation but is now dead. The stars are all dead. We’re looking into the past, the real tangible past, because that star right there, 42 light years away, is a reflection not of today but rather 1973. That star right there, 42 light years away, has since changed and is living in a future that we will never quite see.
I’m never going to read this to you, okay? Because for all I know, in 42 days I will be writing poetry while picturing a different face and people are less like the sun and more like the phases of the moon, just a circle of change. We will never see what all those stars look like currently, because we will never be able to see more than a few seconds into what is seconds away from being history. I mean, the sun that we see when we leave this building is already 8.3 light minutes behind its appearance presently. We will never see it die because we will always be 8.3 minutes behind, and that terrifies me.
It’s the fear that you’re trying to shine out of me, though, so just promise me that you’ll keep smiling.
I don’t really think much about your eyes, their shade or their size, because I’m too busy basking in the sunshine that is your ever-present smile. You’re happy. You’re a child of light, and the sun can only ever be swallowed by eyes so you must stare-- how else could you ingest enough electromagnetic waves to radiate more than our residential system star? You’re a flower, synthesizing and using outer space to create the kind of sugar that must somehow be contagious, ‘cause here I am, feeling sickeningly, disgustingly sweet.
I find myself a kindred spirit of the ocean, because we are both called by the motion of the moon, but you are called by the stars. I’m a moonbeam to your sunshine, just a reflection of your spectrum but at least you’re helping me shine.
I didn’t intend to write poetry about you, but you’re so set on resetting my negative mindsetting sun that I can’t find the energy to get angry about the twelve million tangible social issues that currently control this century life. I’m a creature of night yet somehow I’ve started to look forward to long days of sunshine, and it might have something to do with the nickname I’ve given you, Sunshine.
So, yeah, you have galaxies in your smiles-- but those galaxies have stars that flood up to your eyes, because there are universes in your lungs and black holes in your brain swallowing up the negative space, which is a paradox to say but you’re full of those, aren’t you? Your veins are made of stardust that came from wishes prayed up to ***** of gases and energy that are actually too many light years away for the words to ever reach. We watch the stars silently because it’s just a funeral procession, a speck in space that once had possession over life and creation but is now dead. The stars are all dead. We’re looking into the past, the real tangible past, because that star right there, 42 light years away, is a reflection not of today but rather 1973. That star right there, 42 light years away, has since changed and is living in a future that we will never quite see.
I’m never going to read this to you, okay? Because for all I know, in 42 days I will be writing poetry while picturing a different face and people are less like the sun and more like the phases of the moon, just a circle of change. We will never see what all those stars look like currently, because we will never be able to see more than a few seconds into what is seconds away from being history. I mean, the sun that we see when we leave this building is already 8.3 light minutes behind its appearance presently. We will never see it die because we will always be 8.3 minutes behind, and that terrifies me.
It’s the fear that you’re trying to shine out of me, though, so just promise me that you’ll keep smiling.
it's been 42 days and we don't talk anymore. huh.
