Sentimental drift

You held each star up on a string

and I swear every one was a lighthouse.

Caught off guard by the beauty,

I set course in a sentimental drift –

swan-diving into the ether.

Letting go, again.

 

Remember to forget where we came from.

Each line on our forehead,

each scar on our hands,

does not define our existence.

We are what we feel, when we feel it.

 

Messengers, take heart.

Roll down your window and make waves in the aurora night sky.

I’ll call you when I figure it out.

I’ll photograph this wasted time,

and wear it like a charm around my neck.

Nobody puts baby in a corner.

 

M.

Wet touch.

Liquid lines around the shore;

Wet touch.

A stranger until we’re in danger.

Light dances across the water –

following a plane.

Seven lights blink, not in sync, broken across the bay.

The smell of tobacco stains the air.

Breathing-in and out-heart unmatched; rhythm.

Toe tapping.

Gravel scraping.

A headlight shines through the musk of night.

Laughter cranes the atmosphere, just hanging, hoping.

Hands throw gestures in the sky.

What am I missing?

A passenger seat glance.

An eight-ball’s chance.

Wet touch.

M.

Sometimes the lines are blurred.

I spent a good chunk of my night out stargazing tonight. I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s just the vastness and the beauty of it all, but it just makes me see the overall picture. Sometimes when I’m uncertain about something I just jump right in, right or wrong. Sometimes the lines are blurred.