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The most important words in life are spoken when inspecting blades of grass, or walking in a crowd, or driving, or in the dark. God, I love that. I love that our very best cannot look anyone in the eye. Discuss the weather? Why sure, I will count your eyelashes as I count the clouds. But to tell you who I am? I could never. It’s stupid, fearful, human.
Out of all the great things good words do, I like this most of all.
I know for a fact that when I hold this camera up to the sky, it will not do you justice.
But every night I see your face, I cannot help but try.
Ever try to steal something from the stars? Preserve a story in petty words long after its tide?
As have I, only left with cracking hands and the laughter of time. I could get drunk off that sound, forgive me. I love you all the more that you are not mine.
You are chalk dust on my lens, but the world’s largest pearl upon my eyes, carried off by a midnight black current that traces the only ballroom I’ve ever known, arcing suburban horizon to horizon. Dear, I am underdressed to meet you.
You are all the glass dust wonder this estranged earth could not bear, shining light that is not yours in teaspoons, waltzing close enough to see smiles but not scars. They say your face is a lie, that it’s just a projection of mine.
Tonight your eyes look like they’re waking for the first time.