My wordy paradise

These words I write are mere bubbles, butterflies,

Shape-shifters, dream-catchers,  hot air balloons 

To blow me away from dreary drab disdain of today

In delicious twirls of could-have-beens, the moon, your fingers, those jumbled letters, open skies,

But they are dumb, my garbled words, 

neither sense, nor sound, neither rain nor rhyme

Lonely, empty white sheets of unbearable nights 

Painless ache for unnamed desert sands, mountains, soft swells of warm skin melting into sweet sweat 

And yet some days, the skies align

Your clouds meet mine in my wordy paradise

And rainbows emerge from crumbling starlight