If the world gets there first…

Someone out there has already beaten me to it:

The power suit at breakfast.

The poem about a stranger's mouth.

The book about oranges.

The tattoo with no meaning

The hip hip in a birthday song.

Closing a fist over the candle's blue flame.

Tracing scribbled lines on the underbelly of a hand.

Tracing eyes.

Tracing lips.

Tracing constellations on a body that cannot love you.

Being with a body that cannot love you.

Being in a body that cannot love you.

Licking the spoon.

Saying bless you.

A card for Father's Day.

A call to Home.

Missing Spring.

Skipping Winter.

Liking Cameron Winter.

Standing at the front of the line.

Getting in without a ticket.

Saying I love you.

Saying this reminded me of you.

Wearing the coolest pair of pants for the last day on Earth.

Someone out there finishes a goodnight text with the scoop of a J or a castle-shaped H.

Someone out there is writing their last letter on a bus heading towards nowhere,

Signing off namelessly, beautifully — all my heart, yours.

Someone out there has already uttered the words: Nothing means everything.

And if that's true, now what?

Someone out there must have the answer.

To make the promise.

To hold the flame.

To leave a mark on someone's eyes, someone's spoon, someone's Spring.

Someday, someone will take your hand into theirs and trace the shape of a heart into the soft creases of your palm.

The shape of a heart.

The shape of a heart.

I have run out of ways to say I love you, and so I take up Morse code.

Now all I can remember is: dot in the middle, a line, a line.

. - -

. l l

And now I'm eyes-closed and somewhere else.

And if the world gets there first,

I only hope something good is waiting for me at the end.