Pinkchicken

I wonder at what point it was okay for me to say, I just miss the stars. There's this empty smoggy blanket over us and as much as I want to love you, your large and beautiful hands could never pick the stars from the skies back home. For a while it was just us, I'll always have this image of you with your furrowed brow, leaning over a desk and pushing papers, pushing and pushing until they fell off the desk. You are my stars that never twinkle, burning up, distant and unreachable. I never followed science and you never sang nursery rhymes. We wanted our little person to be looking up at the twinkling stars and the moon, bright and close. Yet

Marie-Anne was a ghost, she floated between dreams and bought back by a name. She hovered and whispered in the corridors of consciousness, two dainty feet that never learned how to stop. She speaks in jumbled words "how I don't leave know to" and her eyes stared at something that had long since left. I talked to her once and long silky tears dripped off her chin. Marie-Anne   was eight. Going on eighty. Sustained by fragments of hope and an apple in the morning. She kissed wilted flowers and held the hands of tree branches. an old soul. a gentle soul. she played hopscotch on the edge of insanity and mourned the loss of her childhood-

I wonder if i'll ever have that again or if my heart will always rest in the dirty and calloused hands of a boy not even 20 years old. you, it was always you. your grand plans fueled with acid and lack luster motivation. saving the world one joint at a time. fuck you, you're beautiful.