I’d like to live in a world where you come over for simple dinners made with love and I find out how you’re doing through the lightness or heaviness in your eyes instead of seeing your face through a box I hold in my hand.
Maybe we’d peel the carrots together and pass the time waiting for the oven to warm barefoot, planting new seeds in the garden as the sun eased its way into the arms of dusk.
There’d be no rush because of that bridge we built from your house to mine (the one that we can roller skate from state to state on) so you’re always just a stone’s throw away.
We’d make plans to wake up early to watch the moon set and the sun rise because we can’t get enough of those two and the days would stretch longer and longer until it took dozens of us in a row to hold each end of the day in a hand.
There wouldn’t be a “real world” to get back to because this is the real world. Earthy and starry and deeply alive.
And together we’d bury the things that died in our arms just when we needed them most… our dreams and our loved ones and our hopes for what-could-be. It would be earth-shattering and heart-breaking but we’d know it wasn’t the end because of all the times we sat in the dark waiting for the sun to rise.
And you and me and them and us, this is how we’d live and how we’d love, through the darkness and the light, from the heart and soul, honoring everything like it was the first time and the last time.
And that’s the way we’d go forward and onward and inward and thrive and survive it all. Hand in hand and heart to heart. You and me and us and them.