The form does not exist. We are making it up right now. We are bridging it with our breath. The words carry on the oxygen atoms and they architect the truths of our children. 

This is the future. Now. 

This is the moment. (Moment. A moment.)

The form does not exist. It is in between your doubts, right there on the edge of the possible—yep, you just breathed it in. You just made it cry, you just gave. It. Life.

Because you believed. You believed yourself. And you believed me.

And, it.

There it is. Right there. See?

See,

See

…this is why I love you. Even though I don’t know you all the way and never will, because you will always be eclipsed—just a little—even to yourself. Until that last moment of “hello” when you release my hand and you go back home, to the ocean, to the lapping pool where you came from. I love you anyway. And I love that you get lost, and don’t know and can’t see and won’t see. I love that you get tired and humdinged and cracked.

I can’t promise you everything, but I can promise you love; and as long as you’re patient with me, as I try to be with you, we can get somewhere,

If we continue to risk the fire.

Risk it.

It will all be fine.

This is a pandemic of promise. Pan pan pan. pan around the world and come back almost as fast — as light and bring me a star, if you can.

If you can’t, a rock.

it’s the same thing.

It’s the same thing as you.

(You could also just bring me you.)

So I’ll hold it up, wash it up, keep it in my pocket.

Give it light and air.

The ones. Who don’t know yet that rocks are alive are coming to(o),

Eventually.

They only need a little more time.

And since time is beginning less,

and less–

We can wait a while longer

For them to come around (I know, I know, it’s killer).

We can also laugh, it don’t gotta be so serious. Just a little bit.