I want you to come to me like the moon on a slick black night. Arising like a beacon to directionless ships adorning the softly burnt breeze like tepid leaves falling to their earthly decay. Won’t you hang off my lips? Like gentle words that string together a ladder of hope, leading through the crevasse of my throat and into the open palm of my sweaty summer duvet heart. Come to me as a chest. And let me open you as soon as I can, so as not to start stacking my wishes into a figure that eclipses the lidded collections of you. Let me see you. Everything that makes up your keepings. The tiny chosen trinkets that bone together your flesh and blood. I’ll give you one of the pebbles in my head. The one that weights my paper fate to its course. String it to a necklace and let its turquoise rhyme tell the world that I’m always headed toward you. Because even now as my fate soars wildly with the wind, I’m learning to read the ancient mappings of your moth careening moon. And one day, I’ll get there. Exactly when I’m supposed to.