maybe there is another home for us. a home a lot like this one but instead of a rich blue canopy above it’s a deep glistening golden, like fresh marmalade generously spread over so that every thunderstorm is a saccharine shower.
where grass grows higher than skyscrapers so children run barefoot in the summer between their towering emerald blades, singing to the tune of the wind out loud, and the rivers always go upstream because this world doesn’t know the word ‘down’.
a home where stars sizzle out loud instead of shining bright and the sun sings itself to rest and the moon toots his own horn and men and women walk with their hands flat on the ground, and on the stoop of a six-dimensonial house shaded by tall grass blades from the sugary rain, maybe in this world you aren’t underground, but sitting on this stoop with me as I rest my pig-tailed head on your dainty shoulders, as we breathe quietly. maybe that home still feels familiar, because in our home here, the sun has gone down too early and stars are clouded by confusion and the grass around your tombstone has somehow died already.
but maybe there’s another home for us.