reaching our very ends
when all that’s left is wounds
where blue hours don’t spell dawn
but dry days and a brittle sun
reveals dreams’ corpses
we board the ship
unfettered in the night
lonely stars eternities away
a broken heart’s compass
to navigate by
or the sound of the waves
reminiscent of storms to old to remember
a whisper out of the blue
a faint memory, perhaps
a color of tomorrows breeze
reluctantly we take our astrolabe
not wanting to raise false hope, possibly
and then we just hoist them, our sails
and as if it had waited for this
as if the stars had only wanted desperate kisses
these wounds do raise a wind
to kindred harbours
where we’ll meet
blessed by the blue
(for Jean)