Sometimes you are here with me, and I dream you up out of my conscious mind, as if the gears are turning to put together old bones. Nothing makes sense until it does, and then we're flying, together, promising never to leave anything behind. And sometimes you return slowly, seamlessly making yourself known beyond the sleep and hum of everyday life.
I meet you in other worlds, in other people, in the eyes of my dog and I can't quite place you until I'm in this closed off space — alone. You steal what's left but it doesn't feel like stealing; it feels sweet and worthy because you remember the good with the hurt. You weave together what's forgotten and moments that make us hollow or whole.
You are a time traveler who revisits our dying days and our vibrant ones, and you make it easier to sleep when we don't know the difference. Sometimes you are stubborn and I cannot recall your words. But you always forgive and you always tell the truth. You are resilient. You make it all worth living even when it's not or even when it feels too far away to tell, because that's how narrative begins and that's how it will always end.
You spin together splendor behind what our eyes can see, and it points to one rich truth, one ruthlessly magnificent detail in which planets and atoms revolve around. You are the sound of the bells I follow that lead to redemption. With eyes open or closed, you unfold it all.