Whispering candy colored roses into the seashell of my lover.
He has my heart, and I hold the key to all of his stars.
We met years ago on the deck of his favorite moon landing.
And in that single instance, we knew that we would never be able to drown in whiskey fumes and Alaskan summers again without the others consent.
I manifested him.
Driving up the trail to his den, I shared with the gypsy his image in my mind.
How he would act, dress, dance, smile. How we both would.
A wooded vision destined to become a thin veiled reality.
Sharing all the most intimate details of his inner plain on that dive, and then in an instant, we were one on that single slice of moon.
Stars locked, hearts trembled, universes expanded and in that moment we knew.
We were unspoken air plants needing neither water nor daffodils to survive.
Only each others brass bands in beating rib cages and the comfort of sandpaper kisses.
We left behind our planets to become one alien being of merging plasma and purpose.
He worked in the painting the sky department and I was in charge of soul stretching. Noble occupations, but our pencils were destined to be fine tuned in some other cave. So we jumped off the diving board into outer space and said yes to the crystal cosmic journey of time travel.
It has been so worth it.
Ive never met a man who loves both the ancient art of buddha sleep and backbending brush strokes. Who’s Amazon grin and Tinkerbell laugh can bring me back to the very first time on that moon landing when we fell into space and never returned.
Sweet sweet space. Sure more popular songs have been sung about the secrets we share with moose ears, or the way a pufferfish plays the piano. But the ballads written about space are by far what rock my Beethoven and carry my Mozart down the Nile.
Where does he intro and I crescendo? Where do I nest and he burrows?
We were a part of a Rubik's cube for awhile and it was softer in the beginning before it got too difficult to stand. So we solved the riddle, grew kale in the garden and juiced raspberries on a Tuesday. A see you next Tuesday kind of Tuesday. And we never looked back.
He has my heart, and I hold the key to all of his stars.
We met years ago on the deck of his favorite moon landing.
And in that single instance, we knew that we would never be able to drown in whiskey fumes and Alaskan summers again without the others consent.
I manifested him.
Driving up the trail to his den, I shared with the gypsy his image in my mind.
How he would act, dress, dance, smile. How we both would.
A wooded vision destined to become a thin veiled reality.
Sharing all the most intimate details of his inner plain on that dive, and then in an instant, we were one on that single slice of moon.
Stars locked, hearts trembled, universes expanded and in that moment we knew.
We were unspoken air plants needing neither water nor daffodils to survive.
Only each others brass bands in beating rib cages and the comfort of sandpaper kisses.
We left behind our planets to become one alien being of merging plasma and purpose.
He worked in the painting the sky department and I was in charge of soul stretching. Noble occupations, but our pencils were destined to be fine tuned in some other cave. So we jumped off the diving board into outer space and said yes to the crystal cosmic journey of time travel.
It has been so worth it.
Ive never met a man who loves both the ancient art of buddha sleep and backbending brush strokes. Who’s Amazon grin and Tinkerbell laugh can bring me back to the very first time on that moon landing when we fell into space and never returned.
Sweet sweet space. Sure more popular songs have been sung about the secrets we share with moose ears, or the way a pufferfish plays the piano. But the ballads written about space are by far what rock my Beethoven and carry my Mozart down the Nile.
Where does he intro and I crescendo? Where do I nest and he burrows?
We were a part of a Rubik's cube for awhile and it was softer in the beginning before it got too difficult to stand. So we solved the riddle, grew kale in the garden and juiced raspberries on a Tuesday. A see you next Tuesday kind of Tuesday. And we never looked back.
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