Sunflowers and kisses all over the sky.
You already have your hands bound with
furry, lacy rope-
tied to a bedpost of rose pedals and
silver studded bicycle chains.

You're the first brunette visible froms space.

First words leap out like a child's:
fumbling from shaking lips
and chasing what the meaning really
is:
"Nice to meet you- your eyes are crushing me"
My fingers
attatched to my arms
attatched to my body
are searching snowy air for a possible
retriubtion for my
lies whispered in a parkbench odessy.
Being close is a myth:
our bodies-
seperated by splinters and iron
but our hands
attatched to our arms
attatched to our bodies
are like warm strands of yarn,
unraveled and dangling above the valley.

Does your mother remember
when you first asked
"Why, is the sky blue?"
What did she do?
Has anything changed?
I look out-
the scope of my vision
penetrating the flares of the sunbeams
I can't comprehend the sky,
I can't comprehend you-
your mother couldn't comprehend the sky-
no better than you could,
I still can't comprehend you.

When my eyes close on lonely nights
ammuntion speed images too big for my brain
drop into view
what are they-
the absence of you?
If memory is just another word for lost moments
then time travel is possible-
these lost moments smell like
sunflowers and kisses all over the sky.