Appeal to my sensibilities.

What stars are those? Have they names? Are they to look like something? Could it be a celestial bovine? See the hooves? It definitely has hooves.  I think it's contemplative, as contemplative as a cow can be, and perhaps it is grazing on the seeds from burst dandelions like supernovas.

Or maybe not.

Will you peel the stars from the ceiling with me? I put them there a long, long time ago. I'd pull the shade off my lamp and hold it as high as the cord would let me, reinvigorating every plastic star with incandescent adrenaline like coffee in the morning or kisses at night. Every night I found something new. A different way to connect the green-glowing flecks into the illuminated figure of something familiar.

I ran out of new constellations. 

So take them down. Move everything around. Spread everything on the floor. I can't have it all planned for me. There can't be only one way. I might just die if every evening I am to see the same shapes in the sky.

Don't mind me while I nurse my Arnold Palmer and try to understand how I can be falling and flying all at the same time. 

Your spine is the spines of open books, with pages curved, creating a column of air to contain the private imaginings of someone else's pictures. Your ribs are forks and spoons, the stems from dead roses, and ball point pens. Your liver is a bundle of forget-me-not's and the bullets from shotguns. Your intestine is a winding highway out of the city. It's driven by 21-year-old denial in a 1969 Ford. Your heart is the red felt hat a busker puts on the ground while singing and playing his father's guitar. The busker doesn't know that the hat is his heart, too. Your eyes are libraries. Your ears funnel criticism the way a bats face funnels sound. Your neck is one from a guitar. Your nose is French. Your shoulders hurt.

And your mind is everything I'd like to be.

That christmas gift looks like a scar I've had from birth. I wonder if we'll ever really try. Tag, you're it.

It is incredible the way a rose blooms in an empty bottle of gin on the windowsill of a place in which I rarely sleep. Save for midday naps and accompanied evenings. I never thought to pair scones and infatuation with cider and top forty.

It is a very good thing my bangs hide my forehead, for it would become readily apparent, if they did not, that I am perpetually blown away. If I could, I might grow a thick mask of facial hair to hide my sheepish grin, my bashful blush and also make lots of money in the circus to buy a balcony and rooftop barbecue and bottles full of gin, first, and flowers, second, and lots of limes and two glasses. Even if I can only really afford one. 

"I remember, once, I ate a whole paper airplane."