I’ve been to the end of the Earth;
it was as far away as my lover’s car.
Caught somewhere between a Milkyway dream
and a Dairy Queen parking lot,
I went past the roads. Into the sky, his focus soaring
as he took me to Jupiter and beyond
(yet I was always caught in his gravity).

He bought me the stars with the money he said he didn’t have;
I gave him a thousand bluebirds
crafted from the constellation in the rear-view.

Stars sang songs of love and
recited poetry as the comets orbited around the moon
sitting in the passenger seat.

I am carsick again, and crash into the world.
Somewhere between fantasy and my bedroom,
my dream is a victim of my bad attention,
scrolling through my phone
and picking the next song.