Fog on the windows in the back seat. It is cold tonight and I like the shadowy traces the heat from my hands leaves behind. I am tracing my own constellations in the window. I am renaming the stars in my head. Sometimes I think that the real reason I don�t drive is because I if I were watching the road I wouldn�t be able to pay attention to the important things in life. Everything under the moon is blue. And my fingers on the windows glow. My hands think themselves comets. I wish I were going home to you. To tell you the stories of my constellations in kisses down your back. I wish I were going home to you to trail my comets in your Milky Way. I think that when we meet you will laugh at my bad poetry about the stars. And I will be happy. . How Rude! - Wednesday, Sept. 22, 2004 - 12:16 PM One small step but no giant leap. - Tuesday, Sept. 30, 2003 - 11:17 AM Where's George? - Thursday, Sept. 25, 2003 - 12:48 PM |
a Nifty design
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