freckles are sweet constellations
dying chocolate stars
on a universe of cream

i wish i could
touch the dying stars
and lose myself
in the universe of your face.

i wish i could describe
the feeling of standing in a large, open building
while a storm rages outside

the roof is a million miles away
something in your soul /feels/ the open space around you
the emptiness, not a bad emptiness
simply /there/, simply powerful
if you had wings, they would fill the space
it's the feeling of potential
at once the potential for the space to be filled
and the electricity that fills it

the storm is above your head
and around your body
and deep in your chest
all that open space between you and the storm
it's surreal.
you're both acutely aware of your fragility
and aware that this torm
won't even touch you.
you feel small
and also like this moment,
the present,
is just an old memory, locked away
from years ago, that you stumbled upon
in the manner one does, when time is simply not a concept.

standing in a large building with a storm raging outside
is humanity.

I used to wonder.
About nothing, really.
My head was full of mud and wild strawberries,
Eaten young because children are impatient
And worries are small.

From the sunrise to the sunset,
We would play.
We would climb weak, young trees
And cling uncomfortably, because we
Were not as small
As we used to be.

We would swing and
Swing and
Swing and
Swing
Until we outgrew that, also.
Until the yellow plastic that once allowed us to fly
Couldn't hold lanky limbs
And tangled hair.

One by one,
The things that defined our childhood
Faded away, left behind in old houses
Or forgotten to a stream of consciousness
That made minutes to days
And weeks to seconds.

So many absent, mundane moments
I remember.
So many
I have forgotten.