Daylight becomes you my dear
Daylight becomes you my dear.
There is no one else I’d rather see basking in sunlight than you.
The years had set upon us like rampaging hordes of myth,
with mystical creatures and story arcs unheard of
outside the ages of 5-10 years old.
Rampaging seriousness of thought bounced in the atmosphere
as our hands flew up to the skies in proclamation
of sheer joy for a world kind enough to have us in it.
There are no days here,
and being born
and outliving themselves.
It is futile to look for separateness in the clouds,
they’ve all been our mothers at one point or another.
These hands are etched in solid parchment
with an undying candle illuminating the darkness of youth.
Swimming through the eons of table scraps and crayons lays
telling our tail and ineptitude,
for we are not the ones who know why they’re doing,
but also we are happily the ones who don’t care.
And so we sit, taking in the daylight.
This flight was booked before you were born
and your sexuality burned forth
with the cunning of the saints
and wisdom of every preceding generation.
Smoldering, replete with common sense and claws.
Digging, diving, drinking, disemboweling
from your heart
time and again,
for all time.
Virtuous sin playing with us
stringless dancers lit on fire with
real and imaginary.