The sky is indigo.

Your steps shake my world like a cement truck rolling across a wooden bridge.

My widows peak is the closest I’d like to be to being a widow.

I’ll do my best to avoid that for you too.

Let’s make daisy chains and eat electric blue sno cones.

Not a pirate, cowboy, or play pretend knight too shy to ask for a kiss.

Half-sunk prophecy swimming in circles around the drain of the past.

Can you see the yellow cat eyes at the top of the stairs?

The brown, seventies era shag rug depressed under a hundred thousand steps.

The revery

Tuck the boy that lays at the bottom of those stairs back in bed.

Let him wake to another dream.