Did you hear the news?
The captain is setting sail to a far off shore, to another home away from us. And have you heard that the sky is quiet in a mourning hush? Did you see the balloons, silver against gold sunlight? What a day, what a day to say goodbye. He's off now to the north, what ever is he searching for? Always there's that glint in his eyes, he stirs magic in the air. He is off. What are we to do, starlings still new to flight? We are not made of canvas for sailing, our colors are painted violet and blue. Farewell! A sailor at heart, no home besides the one in him. He carries it with him in a heart shaped suitcase, looking to build a house for that home. Will it be found in a winter storm?
It can't be real.
It can't be real.
It is.
Will he find it?
Will we find our way too?
What do we have besides our writing? What do we have besides our skin as paper, ink stained arms.
Why such a look of concern? The flowers and stars and shells run up my sleeves, black views, black veins. It'll wash out.
It'll wash out.
I promise.
Tomorrow you will not be here. There will be another in his room, looking for a place to set their home.
Tomorrow we will fall apart in a tragic way.
The gap can't be filled.
And years from now, the grass will whisper secrets to the wind.
Of all those kids who just like to scrawl their thoughts wherever they could.
I hope you find what you're looking for.
The sky is not red. A good sign for the sea. Off he goes, guided by a stack of novels. They're all good, or so I've heard, but not my taste. The sun melts into sleep for gulls, bobbing away into foreign minds. Tomorrow the moon will be home, in another year I'll be there too.
I'll miss you.
