I had a dream one night that we were trees— pushing up through the dark earth,
reaching toward the sun, our arms out stretched.
I woke up to the feeling of sunburned cheeks
and a stray leaf still tangled in my hair.
You told me once that the sky is all around us—
pulled up close under our chins
like a baby blue bedsheet, billowing about as if hung out to dry on the wind.
You said if I spread my fingers I might feel the soft cotton air brushing past.
I thought I loved you then.
I used to tell you about the time I tiptoed out unto the horizon— about how I let the lilac haze surround me like stardust as I
clung on to the edge of the world.
You laughed at the way I spread my arms against the breeze
like I was flying,
but I swear I could feel my feet lift off the ground.
How much simpler the world was when we still wished on fireflies
flickering through the night like loose embers, when we still set dandelion dreams drifting out over a sea of green grass,
when we still believed in the weightlessness of words, of whispered secrets wandering between us.
There was magic in me then— before my brain
cracked open, before the light spilled out.