meet me
under the celestial croissant
with its ridged crispy dough
and cream-colored insides
dreamy craters
perfect for scooping up space
like blueberry jam
edible stardust
speckled throughout
find me
where silver cutlery light
invites to devour
reflected in your eyes
until the buttermilk orange juice skies
offer milky way breakfast
under the egg yolk sunlight
again
~
I can still hear the slow jam jingle of the ice cream truck gliding along past our yellow house like it was riding on rails
Pick a star, any star & I’ll reach straight up and grab it for you put it right inside your hot little hand we had
for Alex — a golden shovel, after Andrea Gibson The sky is still keening and so am I. What is too many tears? I let
It will probably happen when I’m at work, and he recruits a nosy, but caring friend with an AI-powered search engine. They’ll hush behind a
Your gaze becomes a stare, forcing your views without saying a word. Your eyes tell me a story. One where I fall to the wayside.
