a descent into poetry insanity |
we climb out the window, and forget the day—bracing our feet against the slope of the roof as we lay back to watch the sky explode. the sun sets— yellow to pink to red purple to blue to starlight. you lift our hands you trace the stars, constellations waved into existence with your hand and my breath, as I tell their stories again, heroes and monsters immortalized in the sky. and then, fireworks. new stars appear—flying, falling, while we hold hands and gasp until the show ends in fiery fountain. smoke lingers—and I lift our hands and trace new smoke lines, new constellations— and we hold hands, and whisper their stories, new landscapes, new characters, new dreaming. the show over, we stand on gritty shingles and climb in through the window back into reality. I did this once--watched fireworks from the roof. Actually, when I thought about writing about the night, I immediately thought about those apps that people use to find constellations (point your phone, and find anywhere around the sky--even the sky on the other side of the world. I've gone star gazing with people who just watch it through their phones--but when I started writing, it went here instead. |