There are days, still, even days like these –
bright, burning, and blue –
where I sit in the back of the
Escalade with the trunk wide open,
staring out at sawdust and cement,
at old power tools that I will never use,
and I imagine a different kind of life.

One that spins comet tails into well-kept wishes,
with red wagons that brighten fairgrounds,
and bangles that sing songs upon my wrist,
and you are there.

You are always there.

In this other life.

Of shooting stars and dances in the rain.

But today is bright, burning, blue.

And no matter how hard I look,
the stars aren’t anywhere to be found
to guide me back to you.

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