I’d love to see you in an overexposured photograph where we’re looking at the burning red of sunset and I steal a quick snap of your portrait gazing at the west. Just a dark silhouette of you. In which you don’t have to worry about the possibility that you may be looking all peculiar at that moment, because we could always disguise it in all black. In which we learn that obscurity could somehow be good if we know how to befriend them, wisely.
If we sleep under the same blanket, I hope you’d care to share some childhood dreams about riding Pegasus until we get to climb the cotton candy clouds and taste some pieces of heaven in it. I might love the case when that blanket is made up of the free atmosphere we use to breathe in and out. And above us, it’s only a ceiling made of our cosmic system and every spangled nebula of it. Planets and galaxies. Outer spaces outside the universe we recognize. To where I send my old delusions about paradise, in concepts I never know whether it is right or wrong.
I may let the wanderlust bring me to somewhere in Colorado where I can simply surround myself with you. Next to the place that reminds of a scenic heaven where the light is like falling and leaking out from the sky in the wee small hours.
Would that sound good, Denver, a neighbor of Aurora’s?