When I was younger, my dream was to make it to Australia, move there and build a life. I always thought this small Louisiana town was where I was born, but not where I belonged; Canberra was where my real heart and home was.
I met someone.
But that person sneezes and coughs the polluted air around here too.
Lately, it seems the 17 hour time difference isn't far enough from this dusty place I still haven't gotten away from.
Maybe if we could travel light-years, we'd finally be home.
I know he gets close sometimes, in his head.
I can see the distance and I can imagine the world he's built, with waves and petals and jasper, and you can feel the clean and rhythmic pulsing of the atmosphere and the creatures there all roam free and take care of others in need,
the words never linger on the tip of tongues, rather they spill out in poetic truth and your head was always feather-like and the all knowing man in the sky was the one inside your own vessel, and you worried not about what you had to do to keep your pockets full but the simplest form of survival and the currency was smiles
and it didn't matter if there was a slight gap in your teeth or if you ever had morning breath, because it is all so beautiful, so perfect.
It is a dream.

I often wonder if my idea of the place he'd rather be is anything like the one he actually desires.
I wonder if he'd take me with him to this Utopia, had he had the chance to go.
I wonder if, in this perfect paradise, it would be my hand in his.