well, what can i say?
the sky tells me secrets I'm too tired to hear
the wind in your voice
tells me this conversation's over
so, is it?
baby, poetry is for the lovers
for the misfits
for people who had too much of this life and still want more.
we think paper is another language,
spoken in the same way birds' wings flap and modify the air.
it's nothing.
it's everything.
i want the sky to take me
anywhere
but here.
my dearest friend and companion,
your orange soft
and watery blue,
my heart -
are made on the same layer of time.