fairy city
i dreamt of cinnamon buns, my mother’s. i came across rooms sublimated in light. horses pranced across open fields and we were nothing but scholars. words mean nothing in the desert. i have never travelled to these lands: all i know of them is through this pinprick window, where i don’t have to pretend to be what i'm not.
last night, we danced and it was sublime. up here i lose all strands of thought, and writing about it is easy. the soundtrack was the streets and the enormity, the sirens and loud engines and the set was bedazzled city, fairy lights and fast eve, and we wove near what we loved and realized how far we’d come. i like these nights, subsist on them, spent as close as possible looking at each other and fully enjoying, thinking and considering what the other may like to hear, sometimes tilting your upper body just so that they know you are as deep as you can be in your appreciation of them, and they don’t yet know they could do nothing wrong in your eyes.
you render a portrait of humanity alive in your eyes, your posture, the way you walk. and i am afraid you hold me up like a tightrope with the way you speak, the way you control your voice like a singer.