Book you’ll never read
We lived and breathed fantasy.
You were a novel character
come to life, just as cocky,
sharing the same flaws, same
eyes. Same flair for the dramatic,
villian-become-hero. And then
we’re face to face at some dance
and the pen in my hand can’t help
but write frantically, penning
the story before we enact the scenes,
like Hollywood lovers putting on a show.
I can balance director with actor.
And the stories we would tell…
we put Swift to shame. Long distance
only made the dreams wider, wilder,
until they filled the expanse of sky,
hung bright like stars, heavy
as storm clouds. Sending messages
over the phone like Romeo throwing rocks
at Juliet. Too bad in person we were never more
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than fashionable strangers.
But this is a book you’ll never read,
a book I’ll never write.
Galaxies away
My girlfriend lived
three galaxies down,
between a sun and a field of black holes.
While other lovers charted
great heists to borrow the car—
steal away to the soda shop
—I was transported to vistas as vast
as Middle-earth, skies as black
and young as space. Let’s get married
on the back of a spaceship
skimming the clouds like cream,
gently plowing the snow of the sky.
None of the girls I knew
had dreams like me,
had enough vision to see
beyond the past and lingering
present—what do you want to do
on Earth? I could have grown
into a permanent fixture in the yard,
tangled in vines and uncertainty, waiting
for any other voice to respond.
But my girlfriend talks ideas
like sailors talk ocean
and ocean talks waves,
crashing over me. Together
we’ll remove the mask,
face the human condition and give it
wings. A world that doesn’t worry
about something trivial as hunger.