because the what comes after is still more alluring
than the what is.
it isn't about a dream
or a crayoned fantasy
on construction paper.
it is a forgotten memory,
rustling like a fever
in the deep part of my bones
that i can't reach to scratch.
when i think of You
i think of the best times--
the ones that make all of this
such a beautiful wasteland,
a live wire of unbridled heartbeat.
remembering us then is different
than what they call faith,
because faith is believing
in that which cannot be proven.
i used to wake up in Your house
and eat breakfast in Your kitchen.
i've followed You to the secret place
and fallen asleep to the sound
of Your pen on the sky.
i will endure this summer camp of sorts
until the fever shatters my bones
like a prisoner making his escape.
then we will stay up
all night like we used to,
screaming and dancing,
laughing and sighing.
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