We’re all waiting for that someday somebody that will make our skin feel like liquid gold and make flowers grow out of our ears. There’s a the Milky Way in our neurons that we’d be left to discover on sleepy afternoons in October when the leaves are still look like ripe peaches and the sun sets at 6 o'clock. In the spring we’d lay out in a field of wild flowers with syncopated voices filling the atmosphere and feel weeds growing beneath us until they found our heart beats. We’d feel our blood run quiet and warm and even our teeth would feel soft and our knees would be smiling. We’d lay there in the swelling silence of yes and inhale the floating flower seeds in the wind. We’d cough up bluebells and brambles for weeks. I’d make a map of all your freckles and connect all those cities with rivers of arteries until I could carry you around in my pocket in all your perfect symmetry. We’d laugh at the sun and squint at the moon. There's something too shadowed about it and it'd make me feel nauseated, but your feet would make the ground feel more solid and I’d find solace in the ridges of your fingerprints. We’d be all kinetics and soft, milky shower steam. Until one day your hands would start to turn dead blue and your body would grow gnarled and small. The doctor would find that one of the brambles got caught in the left vertical of your heart. You rot from the inside out. I’d sell purified salt and the world would feel dowsed in ***** lake water until it didn’t and I moved on because that’s what people do. Or someone would say “I never thought you’d end up with someone like her” and I’d laugh and say “me neither” and you’d kiss me. But you wouldn’t stop thinking about it until you ****** the brunette on the third floor and let her borrow my lingerie. You’d say “I’m sorry, I love you” and I’d burn the lingerie and then **** your best friend on our bed and we’d both end up shattered shells in a desert. We’d drown in ethanol. Or you’d get angry and hit me one day and apologize and I’d say it’s alright and try to fix you and end up spending a decade losing myself until I became a hollow porcelain bird on the shelf in your living room and our children would have to glue me back together. Or I'd realize you weren’t very intelligent and thought too much about nothing and that glow was really just sweat. I’d tell you’d I’d changed and we just didn’t want the same things, but really I’d just realized I was in love with a poem I made up and you were really quite a bore and saw the world in varying shades of brown. All those flowers in my ears would wilt and my skin would be a the moldy green of oxidized bronze. The day dream always ends in a corner with gaping hole in the floor and toes on the precipice.