blimps, and still
while listening to old silver against worn porcelain,
I measure refracted sunbeams against your radiance.
my cap and gown reflection in your prism eyes
bends the white noise into dull rainbows.
the clock has long since settled into the background
but time never really stands still
and we know that because we are trying our hardest.
you flatten your words before speaking. I can’t
comment. because we are no strangers to how hope
expands far past what is healthy.
then the plastic fork misses your mouth just slightly
and it’s me in the outfield to catch your eye–
suddenly we’re laughing, then spitting, then cackling,
mocking the Fate’s ending to the heroes’ tapestry:
just this flour and frosting, a mixture instead of a monolith—but somehow
somehow, we found so much meaning in the last two years
that the cake from a college cafeteria
finally tasted like cake
[hope is like helium, nonflammable
quietly immune to hot heads and impermanence
light enough to lift lead-hearted zeppelins away from any stairway.
floating isn’t flying, but maybe if we float high enough,
we will rise above the cloud nines and silver lines
and eat cake together again]
[we never did