Think of how much world is wasted on bad eyes - by blindness, or ones that merely do not want to see. The next thing you know you cannot miss a sunrise and french kiss both moon and stars goodnight, your head will hug its fallen hair on the pillowcase, strands telling stories of when you were not conscious. I realize you will visit jewelry stores and watch how gemstones are faceted. You will imagine the galaxy within an amethyst, publish novels on their bouquets of cigarettes, worry about how pretty things can **** themselves too. Everything is a story: you ask to see my cellulite, you tell me how it got there, how my skin stretched to make room for every place we shall go including statelines that do something similar. We stretch apart and still we are okay. We think about how the same dawn reaches us, I can almost see your pupils dilate when the sky dances - I watch but you hope to learn the ballet. Someone is taking a photograph right now that they can look at later, ours never came out the way I wanted them to or perhaps the memories just go by another name. I learned about homophones when I hurt you by trying to sound beautiful. It is so much easier when we can see morning peeling open our feelings, easier when you're here.