dear stars, here in my sprawling city, i write
love letter to imaginary galaxies, dreamt-of worlds without exhaust filled skies. i grow dizzy
like tinkerbell overdosed on poisoned medicine,
clap your hands for neverland! belief, what a
misused word. when you believe in everything, there’s nothing to lie about, no purity in the truth.
light even finds its way underground, surrounded by fairies and blood thirsty, wild children and make-believe mothers. here comes the crocodile, tick tock,tick tock.
there are still bedtime stories to tell,
dreams inside dreams
inside sleeping children trusting in the simple watchfulness of the
billions of nightlights above the london rooftops.
i take little comfort in open windows tonight, in the thought that someone
will always be waiting for me to come back home.
instead, i gaze through the cracks in my thick, dusty blinds that block out the streetlights and tiny, burning airplanes like fireflies,
an occasional tear staining soft elephant ears (pink faded to gray)
as the girl who grew up
found herself in a neverland
where pirates were deceptively soft and sweet, committed to
and wore nutmeg-scented leather gloves to hide the steel hook below.