I lose myself in wonderlands and lovely thoughts and wonder "Do you, like me, hold close Crystals?"
We are bending, rehearsing, reciting, and encoding. We tell our tales of Blackberrying and Cartoon Physics, readily sharing because any practice is worth that shaking, churning feeling of presenting yourself, bare, beneath spotlights.
All the while the date rolls in When Sagattarius eyes count by 20s and hum in handsome green (forest green, to match winter pines)
He is my best friend, as you know, and he can tell I dislike Alone. For Alone greets me with apathetic grace, and hangs pocket watches in my face.
When at last, I crumble into dusty shores, promise me this: That you'll weave me into daises and spin me into paper I'd love, for just one moment, to be Chopin's sheet or Plath's composition.