You’re drawing in one of those connect-the-dots books at my desk
while I trace wing-scars on your back, barely
visible in your flickerin’ halo’s glow.
Two autumns ago, I didn’t know you—then came winter
and you fell through the clouds and then through me. Now,
as the leaves dance to their deaths once again,
I find myself wishin’ on midwestern stars—old friends of yours,
I assume—that your beat-up sneakers had touched
down on the sidewalk next to me sooner.
You tell me that our lives intertwined just when they should’ve,
and maybe you’re right, but I keep wonderin’ anyways.
Forget it—tell me everything. I wanna know
what an eclipse looks like from above; what games
you and the cherubs played in the folds of time and space;
the stories of those fallen stars, the ones
you don’t talk to anymore. Tell me
about the inception of the Earth,
how it was cobbled together for times
like ours; for adoration; for taking
the hand of a stranger in yours,
and never letting go.
