I think I was born under a lucky star.
There is no other explanation for the magical shit that happens to me.
Either that, or it is the four four-leaf clovers I have been gifted over my glimpse of a lifetime
I have never found one myself.
I wonder about this luck then,
for it is real and tangible,
What beauteous moments in this hazy meadow of hope could flourish and extend far above the misty mornings and the buzzing of life,
the whipped cream mountaintops,
the razor edge of the coast,
Maybe one day a creature of fancy would steal me away from the orange warmth through the oak windows with its melted panes,
drag me kicking and screaming
with pleasure.
I will visit the stars and burn alongside as I burst my insides out in the nothingness.
-J