I love the chime of imperfect things,
together they pipe the symphony
of broken dreams.

Desires expressed in solitude
become tomes & zeppelins
in our mind's play.

& those hopes that never yielded feathers;
became mothers and fathers instead.
They sang secret lullabies of goodbyes;
never knowing that their children could fly.

& that teary-eyed expression on your face;
glistening like a bowl of fruits.
It tells me where you have been,
& what it took for you to get here.

So hold that look just a little bit longer,
and never be envious of Venus’
icy repose.

The Bo jingles of dimes in your pockets
is better than any rhymes.
My heart can sing to that tune any day.

So carry that music with a smile.
I’ve been waiting all of this time,
to meet you.