You worry your stars have left you behind. The sun once beckoned and taunted its fingers in your gravity, baby dream as delicate as a leaf on a tree at the top of a cliff hanging on as the season changes; it goes up and it goes down and without a calendar to tell time we go by hunch and stars and pray there is no mistake. Science says not a mistake; more like experiment tangled up in faith. Hold your breaths until probability takes precedence over certainty. So we did. Sometimes these things take time, generations of atomic arrangements lego-ed until they make survival then sense, then one day it got too wild we had to shimmy it down to five. The cliff melts, we pull the line to the end but it was only the tip. And this is still the sky that belongs to cherry blossoms and jet trails when minds are too foggy and the view too crystalline, the petals too sharp, your wishes too granted. The muggy blue void still waits to swallow you. You used to run and scream. Now there’s a butterfly in your chest. You hold, not knowing if it will burst or fly. Maybe this is the dream, maybe you are still a theory. And what if you were the scientist not the creator? You wouldn’t abandon the project. You’d keep testing. More love, wonder, and fries. Something surprising after sense. A flower sprouting from the spot on the ground concrete meets a raindrop out here on a suspended beam of light. When you ask for proof, it will come to rearrange you again and again until you come with better questions not better answers. 

2025