11:56 P.M. In Shangralah
Do you remember when we
went and laid on top of your car, just
so we could get drunk on
the stars?
Remember how we drove for
hours, took four wrong turns
and saw the same small
piece of Earth that
we have called home for
Eighteen years,
then, finally saw its elegance for the first time?
The same place that we never
truly loved until it
laughed with us as equals that night.
Remember how we made up
our own constellations because we didn't know
that it was wrong?
That seeing a tap dancing octopus out of tiny lights
was against the rules.
Or maybe we did know, but
we loved ourselves enough
to break them.
To burn them and laugh.
Remember when you told me
that the sky was actually a
painted canvas and I laughed.
I laughed because we had
the radio on,
and each other’s sweaters on
and star dust on our lips,
and anything was possible.
I remember when you told me what
you wanted and I
remember how gravity
stopped working because,
in that moment,
you were just as divine as it was.
I remember how I loved you
before I could tie my shoes,
or see the stars.
Before I knew that love
tasted like peppermint and orange roses.
I know now that you are my
brother.
My brother with the driftwood smile, and
the scar just above his temple that
matches mine.
My brother with different blood.
A different hum to your bones.
A different texture to your stare.
My brother nonetheless.
It's those nights when we lie
awake together, getting drunk
on the stars that makes me want
to take the long way home.
👁 4💬 0
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
If you or someone you know is struggling, you are not alone.
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — call or text 988, 24/7. Crisis Text Line — text HELLO to 741741.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
Comments are closed for this poem.