—and when the last white lie has been
said and made, we’ll have lived a fairytale
                                       worth retelling.

The exuberant sun will have been a constant
joyous backdrop, save for interludes
of mournful downpour
              and cascading deluge.
              When we close
our eyes we’ll taste the spring’s
promises and winter’s peace, everything

 

                                       white, white, white.

​

In the story, our hands rejoin, and we still
              have each other's fingerprints tattooed
              on our palms. Our petal throats un-tear
themselves back together. The cracked
earth rejoins itself at our feet.
              We turn to the brightest star and tell it that
              it isn’t covered by clouds, that                   we can see
it just as clearly              as a past and two ago.

 

              Your form wavers in the corner of my eye and
I pretend that I can feel the heat
of your side by mine,

​

              that you haven’t followed
the expansion of an ever growing universe,
letting yourself be                     pushed incomprehensibly
beyond             all the constellations we
                                                     once traced
                                        together. When I turn to
search your eyes,

I’m met only with the ever burning sun.

​

              your orbit swinging your
              dimming form somewhere far
              beyond its effervescent rays