We walked wet walkways in childhood, all neo-counter chic and midnight postmodern | dark as missed points and you were bright as happiness. You accidentally live up to your name.

I could tell you not to ask the people who talked with their eyes closed, but you would do it anyways |
and you’d do it with a smile on your face the size of heatly heart-singing sunshine. They’d be hurtful and sharp, blasting from the sidelines where you can always see them
and you can always see them because they’re always there, and that’s not that bad

Because sometimes, life is just a drop of poo that a monkey will shit |
and that’s OK!
So you said, “Hello, world.” ||

Your childlike motto has always seemed to be that frowns are the things born when a person stops believing in the existence of love. Santa and the Easter Bunny cry in the corner. And so the days when I’m on the underside of undertones, all soaked and soggy, there’s this almost comedic image in the back of the back of my mind of you, coming back and saying, “See? | See? | I told you so.”

But nevertheless, it makes me want to send them out to you. Those childhood whispers of “It’ll be OK,” and “don’t worry,” all written on the petals of reassurances and Vietnamese butterfly kites on the breeze...
but what I REALLY mean to say is “Stick in there” ; keep showing those people who speak with their eyes closed those heatly heart-singing smiles of sunshine of yours. Because my only real promise is, it’ll be better than yesteryear’s. Critics may have the best clothes, but always the most crooked smiles. It’s a new day, sister dearest, and sugar cane grows on sunshine always.

Some get better and some don’t move
This is all just practice; we’ll watch them stay the same
watch them all stay beautiful,, in a decaying kind of way.