You’re caught in between stained windows and golden universes

and I’d throw you a dream,

but when I was six I twirled in the outfield,

my fingers running across fences instead of bases,

splinters penetrating my skin,

red metal jungle gyms sticking to my tongue for the first time.

And I never threw.

I had bad aim, the coach said, which was bad if I wanted to get anywhere in life.



But it's just that I prefer running sideways next to fictional characters and

ramming my head into book covers so hard

that I run my brush through blood the next morning.

For some, sports are cathedrals,

and I shouldn’t walk into them,

because I don’t know how to hold my right hand with my left,

and speak to someone I don’t know

(I can’t really speak at all);

I have no right to break a religion,

to break your religion.





A pear replaced the sun today,

and I wish you could have seen it.

Leaves grew out of the stem,

and I swear I could bite into it, feel

juice run down my soul,

and let it quench a thirst you never could solve,

even when your mouth was my cup,

and I tried to tilt it down my throat,

but I still tasted sand and paper and bitter broken thoughts

soaked in what must have been lemon,

although I can’t be quite sure.



But your window is faced towards faces drowning

in concrete (thoughts) that never finished drying, because

somebody forgot to hang it (or them) on the clothesline,

even though I’m sure pavement wouldn’t mind hanging

next to your sweater I accidentally stained with my longing for…

you.

And you’re blind to the universes you're standing (flat) next to.



And I want your lips to share that tingly feeling with mine again,

something I’d never been acquainted with before.

But all you can kiss is gold.

I’ve never been so jealous of your invisible universes before.