I mean I’ve traced freckle constellations on far too many bare backs to be proud of
but hadn’t found the right star to land on until I ran my pointer finger across yours.
I mean I’d give up my dreams and follow you to Sacramento. I’d pack poems in my suitcase and squeeze your hand on the red-eye and abandon my perfectly fine life to build a new one with you. I’d write from there. Or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I’d give up writing, too.
I mean Sometimes I dream of keeping you in my closet but not in the serial killer kind of way. I worry about too many things. Like the world caving in and swallowing you whole.
I mean I love you more than anything.
Which means Is it the same for you?
Would you keep me in your closet?
Would you buy that one-way ticket?
Have you found a star to land on yet?
Is it one of mine?