I was chasing the moon home, as if I could beat it.
Convinced that I was not as small as I felt
and that two people couldn’t be as separated as they were
when the sky bound them together.
And as I drove,
I felt like a child,
curled under a celestial blanket.
It promised me of my worth;
it sheltered me with whispers of greatness.
This was how I felt that night.
As if I was meant to be something,
and the world knew my future but couldn’t reassure me
because I didn’t speak its language.
The words of the sky are not composed of letters
but of breaths and silences.
And in those silences,
I didn’t feel so disconnected.
The air hung over the darkening hills,
blue with humidity and promise.
When I wondered what I would become,
the indigo air absorbed my fear.
It enveloped the visions of solitude and singularity
and gave me breath to fill the shallow spaces in my lungs
and my heart.
It embraced the repetitive words and
And in the only language I could understand,
it read to me my best stories,
and those stories finally sounded real.
If the poems run together someday
and no one cares to listen anymore,
I will have that.
carried on the faint winds of a humid evening.
I don’t know when night drives became my drug.
(Probably around the same time that
poems started to bridge the gap).
But if it’s a fix I need,
I’d rather get it under the cover of darkness.
A black sky,
connecting me to whatever I am
and whoever you are.
And whoever is in between.
As I drove,
the fireflies created for me an everlasting Space Mountain.
More guarantees of adventure
along some winding path through obscurity.
And as I flew into the supposed oblivion,
I pretended their twinkling was the sleeping souls of birds,
awake at night even as they slept
burrowed in a nest far above the road.
People could be like that.
Alive at the times no one presumed them to be.
Seen most clearly
and most beautifully
when they didn’t intend to be seen at all.
Night wore on,
but I kept hearing more.
The moon was getting farther and farther away
and I was that moon.
An illusion of closeness.
Under the same grand blanket,
anything could seem small and big all at once.
it began to stop mattering.