we struck matches
so many matches
and lit the tiny wick-hearts
of a legion of paper lanterns
sending them skywards
each one,
a wish.
the sky gamely gobbled them up.
the sky claimed each one
the sky never muttered a word in response
and yet
my wishes have all come true.
i am thinking of those lanterns now
and what it means
to make a wish
what it means to pray
what it means to do magick with one’s words.
if i tell you
you are beautiful
you are brilliant
you are the midday sun of endless potential
that i struggle not to squint against
you have teased me open and plucked my petals from their seating
you are as compelling as myth
yet as solid as muscle and mouth
and so
very
beautiful
these are matches
struck
these are lanterns
lit
they slide up into your sky
and softly disappear.
some would say this is madness
that your silence
is not so sweet as i imagine
that your silence
is simply baffled,
and you watch my words sail by
as a target watches an arrow
zing madly into the backstop
that these tender little flames of observation
gutter in your palm
and that is why
you return them with the same silence
as a hot equatorial sky.
if this is madness,
i am mad.
i will strike these matches
and open my palms
and show you the soft insides of my wrists
as each word rises from my sharing
in this way
i will never have to roll up
light
and breathe deeply of the knowledge
that i did not tell you
in every way i can frame
the world is so much better that you’re here.
