Scotch Tape Moon

Today we’ll sit on grassy planes.
Surrounded by warriors masquerading as weeds.
Beneath this navy blue blanket of night,
With paper clip stars,
And a scotch tape moon.
I’ll lick my fingertip and draw rings around the sky.
You’ll cup your hands around your mouth and whisper to the night.
This is the feeling of secret peace,
Of mutual tranquility.

Tomorrow we’ll sit atop the roof.
Just you and I, a secret cult in which we thrive
Off the images of fairytales and far off jungle lands.
A special club with only one rule,
Kept hidden in a box.
I’ll hold your hand in mine and dance rings around the sky.
You’ll cross your fingers taut and whisper to the night.
This is the feeling of undying hope,
Of perpetual reliance.

By Wednesday you’ll be gone.
Like a flittering flame,
You just blew out.
I’ll close my eyes real tight and see rings around the sky.
You’ll hold your hand up to your chest and whisper to the night.
This is the feeling of bittersweet loss,
Of a silent recognition.