and i’m there, and there’s sun
and love exists as does it,
streaks of shattering perriwinkle blue
like cracked pieces of stained glass.
cold air whispers caressing city streets,
slipping along the channels carved
by spilling moonbeams when night falls,
spreading between pedestrians and
bus stops and paving stones,
leaving its kiss on your home window,
yet among the city's static noise
and through the bleariness of eyes
weeping tears the windswept,
falling from my lashes as falling leaves
and the war is so distant, it's almost inaudible.
the blossoms scatter through the wind,
nothing but a distant memory
of a forgotten spring that one day to come
i will forget it ever happened,
it will not be an artifact, it will not be
acknowledged as anything other than
the wind that can make me cry.
i want to say what nobody told me,
to myself, since there has been
so much more to figure out in my mind:
they are there, out there, when it’s frostbitten
and when it’s flooded with sun-poison
but knowing this and being here,
knowing and living, feeling loved
in a way that warms winter roads,
tuck daydreams into your hands like clouds.
you can smell the phantasmagoria,
the elysian fields, the oherwordly orbits,
and these skewed distorted lenses
that got lodged in my eyes will one day melt
the same way that your reveries do
when you feel the vicious, the hopeless,
the tormenting reminder of the real.
but time spent hoping is still elapsing,
not wasted, for the time will eventually
smooth out your honed scar tissue and
wear down nightmares into hazy afterthoughts.
there are more terrifying matters
to anticipate, however, and to allow
space for a sliver of hope as a moonbeam.
the past is a day you already know.
but the future is untold and it's your story.