Another Place in the Atlantic

I fell for a world where clouds fell apart like snowflakes,

where we cultivated rain

*make sure it gets plenty of moonlight*

stars constantly pulsing and radiating like a constant, frozen breath.

The deserts there are riddled with cacti that

slosh with cheap whiskey,

quenching sad-eyes,

rationalizing realistic mirages that keep company,

ghosts that speak slowly, 

      sounding out each forgotten fable:

How once, a pair of cold, blue eyes melted the burning world around her, or

How when a drawn out piano player's hands sang fortunes for the drowning, or

How more and more Great Grandmothers began to lose their children

too quick to quilt-lined coffins

The plains of its Midwest hold mighty oaks that trade jokes

with low-hanging, curious clouds;

Mountains move trees along the rolling valleys,

playing chess with Mother Nature.

Pangaea found,

Where the house down the street becomes Berlin,

Sydney is the neighborhood across the street,

and the guy next door is French, smoking a Camel and drinking Southern Comfort.

I fell for a world where you were the only girl in the room. . . .

where you smiled like rain,

standing there, dry as the Atlantic.