White Blank Page

I'll write a fake romance
with the windows thrown
open, the eery summer
in March 
dripping through on the breeze.


I will fictionalize
some weird human touch
to appease the stars
as they dully shine
like spray-painted cardboard
on fishing line.


I want to sleep
for a thousand years,
yet not sleep at all.
I want to tell you everything.
I will walk barefoot 
along the waterways
until I can throw myself
to the sea.
I will kiss the fiery stars
because I cannot kiss your lips.


And in my sleep
I dream of the wild 
jungles of my mind,
with beautiful birds,
the trees taller than
any iron-and-steel buildings.


There among the greenery
we will wake within the earth.


So for now
in my waking hours,
my feverish awareness,
I will dream with eyes open
all that shall never
be,
all that never was,


my return to the sea.


My soft longing
for your voice.