on nights like this, the moon whispers ‘what ifs’ in halos,
as if to pass on a secret Icarus told her the night before his wings melted
you see. from her vantage point, she can see us both.
on opposite sides of the map wishing we could simply google our way into eachothers arms.
her pale hue reflects both the messages you sent. and the secrets you keep.
the reasons you weep into 400 threadcounts of revisionist history
sinking slowly down, into goose feathers.
embracing soft plumes of ‘what ifs’, and trying to avoid the quills of ‘what was’
but for us…
see, once his wings melted, Icarus was earthbound.
standing in wax puddles of his own bad decisions
surrounded by mere mortals whose flesh spoke symphony’s of possibility
and whose fragile nature left crests in seascapes of plastic fantasies.
the foam on the folded lips of rabid waves dont speak insanity quite like you do
and once the saltwater turned to taffy, and the taffy into hard candy. we discover our sweet tooth makes way for more ‘what ifs’ to hide in cavities
but i suppose im just another ‘all day sucker’ on extended paternity leave, trying to father a pastime worthy of remembrance
…but i will never forget you
- Chew Knives