Pockets of space, of time

Talked to my star yesterday, heard her voice clearly though distances away. And we're right back on that blanket in that park in Helsingfors, discussing intellectualism, boredom, bonding hearts and minds. The sun makes us golden, the cider rosy. (Suddenly a call disrupts our flowery world, our dismantled reality.)

My star and I walk until our legs can't carry us anymore (but we'll carry each other). We laugh our stomachs achy, bike unsafely on cobblestoned streets in beloved cities through velvet nights. We make plans of our futures, of dark-haired children, of big dogs and hollow houses. "Not how, my star, when." So we fall asleep in the morning side of the night, when the city still smells of silence and salty water. Her body close to mine on the whitest sheets, keeping me safe (drying the tears that the call evoked), patting my head and whispering my ears full of silver dreams. Forever, my star, just forever.