I’ve been busy loving a colder part of the ocean writing love letters unsent, footnotes from a dream:
I’ve heard that where you are, museums open their doors for dreamers; that there is a secret entrance for sleepwalkers who have shuffled themselves to the Smithsonian.
I’ve heard the subtle crowd murmuring their half sleep into the delicate quiet of a city night – one by one, single file in their pajamas, the way children dutifully rise and march to the Christmas tree only to fully brighten at the sight of the grandeur, the lit columns, the halls of lives long past
That there, taxi cabs make oceanic trips from borough to borough
that after rush hour, they fly.
Where you are, petals rain down on Broadway unannounced.
This I’ve seen with my own eyes, while waiting for the bus on Bowery.
I’ve seen it happen –
Here I go to bed before the sun goes down,
The West Coast is wasted light on me.
Dream powered gibbous moon cycle
It’s February and the girl next door is wearing shorts.
What I mean is, here I sleep too deeply
What I mean is, I weep for home like a lost child in secret
What I mean is, I miss you but I can’t go back
What I mean is, we'll both die trying.
I love you with the violence of spacetime, the result of
Whole galaxies crashing or
The mere nudge of a planets axis
The slow stop or the supernova - everything about us is all and nothing.
This time we'll go out all boom and particle start whole new solar systems! organisms! building blocks! and ecosystems! immeasurable chances at life,
and us again.
What I mean is: I'll find you.
What I mean is: I miss you.
But you're still here.
You disappear and reappear
Will you come find me in the star field?
Will you know where to look?
Will you find me at the school dance?
Same place where I always stand.