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Description
it’s the confusion of thoughts in the dark
or the brittle-boned brightness of stars
in the night, the ones that dance
through the sky, and fly through our hands.

it’s the cereal run at three a.m.
but to trip and spill it down the stairs (again)
the notebooks filled with purple pen
and the page is turned to the next, then,

it’s the conversations replayed in my head
our old worries turn undead
it’s what we once saw and might never see,
who we once were and might someday be.

it’s the world above our heads,
the one that we can never reach,
reaching toward with open hands,
with the wind outside showing its opinion.

it’s the pinball machine mind of mine
(at four in the morning, now)
and how our pencils fail to convey my emotions
as nothing can describe the bounce of the thought.