This is what you would call
a place 'in between.'
you make the badly brewed tea
taste like sunshine
and the million-dollar champagne
float in the sky.
I share a mimosa with my shirt
and the song that plays
through my earphones
is chorused with cries.
because you'd tell me it's all part of the experience,
and that it's the rich who have it bad,
because they'll never know what it feels like to fight for something,
like you do.
I wouldn't mind a first-class seat,
straight to you.
Could you imagine,
me, jumping from the plane
and descending down an updraft
to where you wait
with your arms outstretched
and sprawled across a picnic blanket
that's already laced with beach sand.
The drive back to your place
is a space in between -
I tell you stories about transient strangers
and the school of fish I saw
leaping through the clouds.
You laugh because I'm a romantic,
and I laugh because you're a mad man.
I've grown accustomed to the ways
that you turn my tales into fables
and weave them into
our goodbye wishes,
"tell the fishes I said hello?"
"There's not a cloud in the sky," I tell you in earnest, "no cotton waves for them to swim through."
"They'll find a way -"
I rest my head on your chest - as I did on that first night - and apparently, I'm a witch because that's all it took to get you to love me.
I can feel a chuckle brewing in the cauldron of your chest.
"The fishes will be there," you tell me with confidence,
"they'd never miss a chance
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