We were as beautiful as planetariums, On the hems of undressed ghosts, Like sleeveless butterflies Accustomed to otherworldly gravity. We made the poetry to accompany The soles of lost swimmers On the outskirts of deserted rooms. Enamored By the ambush of lifting the sky, The dark Forever bursting of inexplicable Word galaxies. But now, You are far away And move On two legs Of falling leaves. And there is little going back. If At all. But for such misfits as us, From the arches to the hairline, Into the unnoticed graves of greatness, There will be a lasting reaching out. The dizziness of daisies setting fire To our hearts.