it's the rain that makes
the flowers grow
and death dies itself when a fearless, feeble
similarly, the rain that falls
reminds me of you, looking at the same moon as I
and death dies itself when a fearless, feeble version of me
Two stray cats walk into the moon and beyond.
My world is an alleyway,
a series of washed-up stained photographs that don't make sense,
(and I'm trying to make sense of them—I really am)
and the smell of coffee. That goddamn coffee gets me everytime.
the coffee makes sense.
we are utterly ordinary.
we are utterly infinite.
we are part of the universe, molecules of air and water and hope,
particles of matter.
we are utterly hopeful.
we are utterly extraordinary.
Life looks beautiful when you're in love.
Crooks are not crooks, they're just misguided.
Chipped cups aren't chipped, they're just special.
Your oddities are charming, like the chipped cup, or the coffee,
the coffee that you heated yourself
and drank in the morning (because you couldn't stay awake otherwise),
and that I tasted when I went for
my daily fix of you.
You are the coffee to my chipped cup,
the infinity to my extraordinary life.
You are the world with no boundaries;
I am the rain that makes the flowers grow.
I am the cat in the alleyway,
watching the misguided men be named a "crook"
by other misguided men
who don't believe
that the series of stained photographs
You are made of
particles of light
and molecules of hope
and you are the universe
and the universe is you.