"The heavenly stars are on fire,"
you wrote—so I traced their embers in your lines,
but where’s the smoke?
Perhaps it lingers between syllables,
between a stick figure future and a melting past,
between the chaos you ransom
and the whispers you inflame.

"Some locks need two keys,"
you mused—so tell me, Anaïs,
does poetry need two voices to unlock a moment?
Because your words unfasten thought,
weave mischief into meaning,
turn science into sentiment—
each stanza a blade, a bloom, a rebellion.

You run from hackneyed halls,
freewheeling with Johnny Cash,
eluding rulers and repressive lies—
and somehow, still, you pause
to drop a pizza emoji, a signature,
a hunger that ink alone won’t satisfy.

So tell me, Yale’s ink-stained philosopher,
do you write in crust and cheese too?
Does every stanza deserve a side of marinara?
Because if poetry is fuel,
then surely, you are proof
that pizza and prose
can both be divine addictions.