we were not the flavors 

of a beautiful painting,

but rather, the starched sheet

of an endless wallpaper

stranded in a cyclical design

that we drew ourselves,

unable to cling to the walls for a lifetime.

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so, I spent the night
watching her sleep.

and by dawn,

I was convinced.

the great beyond is not made up of particles
or elements.

or galaxies or stars.

but rather,
it is a pair of raven eyes

that holds this turbulent universe 
in the skyline.

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So, I switch my gaze back towards the ocean

and listen to it's
tranquil music-

a melody
I could only imagine

would sound sweeter
had there still been

two sets of footprints in the sand.

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and when you look up and

watch the carmine sunset riding the clouds,

know that those are the blood

of the universes that fought so valiantly

to have our constellations vibrant and incandescent

in their boundless mausoleums.

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and just like that,

the nights 
have adapted a darker shade,

the morning sun
has lost its taste

and the northern stars 
have gone and misplaced themselves

trying

to show us the right directions.

and the way back.

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There's a wistful song entangled in my head,

uplifting itself in the hushed hours of dawn.

and I can’t decide what it is, exactly.

and I’m not entirely sure where it comes from.

but in the understories of the ambience,

I can hear the brash thrust of the waves toward the sand,

and then the slow draw-backs of the ocean crusade,

carrying pebbles and sea shells and whate...

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