We met amongst park benches,

where people came to
remember what breathing was like

and the pigeons were pedestrians.

The skyscrapers stained the sky

in sepia tone and window reflections

And trees left their little

pointillist doodles on the grass

in yellow Rorschach blotches.

I saw

leaves.

(I never was a romantic.

You know that. I know that

because you told me.)

You told me it was good luck

to see a black squirrel and

I was happy to have discovered

a new thing of beauty.

You told me it was warm out

but when I stared at you through the pond,

our eyes did not meet

Because though you were looking toward me

you were busy admiring the sky.

I wondered if the wind tricked the clouds

and told them they were free from gravity. But I wouldn’t know, I’m just

Planet 9 in Galaxy You,

where stars left their little

pointillist doodles in chalk,

and I made rounds in infinite nothing

around the park.

I shivered for it was cold up here.

When being was a heavy thing,

your words were paper starships

sailing out to sea

With secret nothings written in the folds

and I could just be happy

to be alive

like the grass.