Pat Pace

I realized I was drunk on the blooms of summer.

When I’m with you, I’m new. By new, I mean I’m enlivened.

The shape of love is as amorphous as the curves of a cloud. The static stretchiness of honeycomb opening. Delicate flesh is a portal to another world.

I show up at your concert. I’m embarrassed to be here. Because I’m only here to see you. Because I’m only vaguely invited. Because my intentions must be so transparent. I have a crush on you.

I’m sorry and thank you. These are the only words that mean anything when you are dying. Once you tear it all away, get to the core of what your life meant, all that is left is gratitude and apologies.

You are a miracle that happened to someone else.

Here I’m again thinking about a future lover. Who will I love? What color will your eyes be? How will you think? What will be the nature of your dreams? What will we laugh about?

I want to tell you that every thought you have is radiant.

This world of yours is ending. You have a few magical moments to say hello but this life is mostly about saying goodbye.

After you read this, you have no excuse for living a boring life.

They give you déjà vu.

The sentence pulled me into the future.