I am just me,
a dreamer who keeps her eyes peeled at the sky, wide open like overflowing saucers
wondering, imagining the life that exists
beyond these familiar clouds and stars
that blanket gently over the sins of mankind
Staring up at the vibrant hues of the
sky’s palette, I wonder if,
somewhere past the threshold of everything we know, there exists a parallel universe of sorts,
a timeless paradox or reflection
of the lives we have lived
and perhaps, the ones we have yet to live
Maybe somewhere existing outside
of our solar system, there is a girl
who resembles myself, with the same
passion to understand
encompassing the irises of her eyes,
and I wonder
if she has tasted the bittersweet flavor
of love yet, or if she had ever experienced
the emptiness of feeling it slip
between the hollow cracks
of her slender fingers
and I crave desperately to hold her,
to shelter her from her imaginary torture
and to be able to embrace
the faraway dreamer in my own arms,
and if I could, I would
send a shuttle into outer space
filled with enough love to orbit around
the uncontrollable expanse that lacks not only
gravity, but art-
the art of loving
and being loved
so I shout up at the sky, hoping that
the highs and lows of my voice
will resonate to her, and console the damsel
so that she will be greeted with care
rather than distress,
so I am able to send her the same love
given to me-
even when I believed that
no one in the galaxy
had any left to give
Ground control to Major Tom,
please send her my heart.
You are fifteen the first time someone says your name like it is made of electricity. He is made of sunlight, the kind that you wake up feeling on your skin and the kind of voice you still hear ringing like your favorite song in your head even after you hang up the phone.
You love him simply because he is real.
When you talk to him, you no longer feel compelled to think with your brain. Rather, it is the monotonous thump within the cavern walls of your chest that does the thinking for you.
When he says your name like a contagion he is desperate to catch, it skips. The spaces between the beats become less and less defines, both snare drum hearts pounding in unison for each other. Nothing else exists except for him and those hypnotic eyes, like footprints he leaves behind on the surface of your soul.
Your lips meet under the luminescence of the Big Dipper above, beneath the radiance of the same stars you used to curse before you met him. You recall the moment you had given up at the irrational idea of love, shaking your fists at God, screaming questions that only time could possibly answer. The days when the only thing reverberating against your lips was a collection of absence and everything left unsaid. But those days are over, and now he looks at you- gazes into your eyes like had found what he had spent seventeen years unknowingly searching for.
You can’t help a smile from blossoming across your face because your heart, though it thinks, over analyzes, now it understands. He is your serendipity, a piece of heaven revealed to you at the least expected time. When all you wanted to do was destroy your fragile skin with the remnants of what could have been, he became your guardian angel. One that pulled you from the wrath and toil of your deepest afflictions and whispered, “You are safe. You are home.”
We’re sitting on the plaid couch in my basement, your hand in mine like a puzzle piece we took forever to find. It’s when we’re doing nothing when I realize that I want to do everything with you. It is almost always winter in my mind, my thoughts permanently frozen in time, paralyzed to my bed sheets the way icicles cling to shivering windowpanes. But with you, it’s different, our blossoming love proving the existence of a perpetual spring. We grow wildly- like two oak trees embraced behind the fence in my backyard, our branches intertwined and our roots firmly entrusted in the dampness of the soil. Not even the strongest breath of wind could destroy us.
And we walk hand-in-hand in the breath of October, the kind that stings like knives to the bone. You forget to bring a jacket with you but you insist that you are perfectly fine, that the electricity radiating between our fingers is enough to keep you warm for a collection of intoxicating eternities. And to us, the rest of the world barely exists, their watchful eyes and orchestral voices like anthems proclaiming the silliness of our juvenile love, a bright-eyed girl in a violet trench coat and a boy with a smile so bright it’s almost as if she had accidentally fallen in love with the rays of the sun. The kind of livid brightness that warms the coldest of hearts, the darkest of rooms.
But we walk to the neighborhood coffee shop with the combined tranquility of two retired lovers strolling through Paris and the frenzied excitement of exhilarated children on the seemingly endless journey to Disney World. Every welcoming front porch and townhouse we pass feels empty in comparison to the home we created within us, with a fire permanently kindled in our souls and between our restless fingers. You kiss me where the sidewalk ends, between the trees that resemble the magnificence we have become- the sky melting every molecule of transparent sadness I had left within me through an endless palette of pastel bliss. And in that moment, we become the fragile remnants of summer heat stuck trapped and misunderstood in the birth of autumn.