flys to the sun

letters to the dead.

if i could
i would write a sonnet
to every freckle on your shoulder.
or to that dimple resting on your cheek,
or to the glitter in your eyes
when you are drunk.

and if i were an artist,
i’d paint you tall and long -
an abstract dandelion weed,
or a new jersey birch tree
thriving in an indian summer.

in the gold of a watercolored sun
i’d create the swirls of your belly laughs,
or the way you smile
when someone calls your name.

i spend my time pressing fantasies
into my eyelids like thumb tacks;
i always fly too close to the sun.

did you know
that you are the only one?