There is the fact of right now.

My friends have wings

so we fly off to Times Square in June, Charlottesville in July, 

the deep, purple valleys of Monterey in November, 

and that glamorous dark and cold of L.A. in January. 

Life smells like weed and condensation on the concrete and the E train going to The Bronx.

You’re the sun if the sun wore a maroon sweater.

You’re a lavender field if lavender looked nice in blue jeans.

My darling, whose smile glows with the colors that collect on the horizon at dawn and 

whose eyes were made to marvel at the stars from which you were born…

come a bit closer, so I can see you clearly.

“We’re not sad!” we'll sing from across the curtain. It’s not sad,

not one bit.

Just meet me where the haze separates us.