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Sep 2014
I pray to the Man on the Moon; he listens to me every night.
He knows when to send fireflies in green and white glow; I believe in him
just like how I believe in road trips and their gram of health benefits.
I do not believe in sunlight, in daylight, in blazing heat that cuts
my skin without honor or grace, or respect. I believe in the Dusk and the
precedence of Dawn, and the exchange of whimpers between the now and five
minutes before that; in the dust that cannot seem to settle when I hold my
hand against the first greeting of the day.
I am made of dust and sand; I am made of clay, of sheds of disappointments
and blisters of neverending tomorrows. I am skins and heart that skid on
a swinging tire loosely cramped on a tree branch. I lift my feet up before I
do that huge push, and it is the closest to flying. I believe in flying high
and landing deep, with bruises and cuts on my forehead, and splinters on my
I believe in the Man on the Moon and the truth he tells me. I believe in
looking up, closing my eyes and smiling as I feel the first drops of heavenly
drizzle; I catch some in my mouth. I do not believe in the truth spoken and
outside; I believe in the whispered honesty of tongues who cannot lie, who seek
clapped eyes and receptive hearts. I believe in the witch doctor and if he says
run, I will go.
I believe in quiet nights spent curled with old pressed pages on Earth that
reek of ink and strings and speak of hopeful hearts and bones. I believe in hope.
I always hope. I believe in unmade beds on a Saturday morning and why the sheets remain white.
I don't believe in shared moments spent talking, mouths moving against skins;
I believe in looking, in always searching, in intertwined hands that talk more
than mouths and sharp tongues, in gazing and waiting and understanding that
waiting is the Man on the Moon smiling at me, in the unspoken kindness of
being held.
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