It’s not the wind’s fault
For making a mess of this—
Because we all desire to continue on
& live as if it’s everyone’s fault but our own.
When is the last time you stopped & looked up at the stars who are screaming your name through their complicated constellations saying “watch me”?
& you might not know their names,
but who cares:
we don’t always have to know,
& sometimes we just have to be known.
Because for some unnoted reason, being known is the hardest kind to be—
not to be flawless or to be honest or even to be brilliant:
& seriously, just freaking have some fun.
Not even the sun can admittedly profess that he shines brighter
than unapologetic loud, cackling, laughter.
& there was that time, when I made you laugh
& the loud rumbles of your soul escaping your body only through the cracks in your teeth are forever etched in my memory like a tattoo only visible to myself, labeled: intoxication.
I hope I always make you laugh—
Because all my forevers under the moonlight
aren’t the same when I’m sitting at a table for one.
& let’s stop being pretty,
let’s be known.