There are moments when
I feel so small
and so broken
that you come along
and inflate me
like a blue balloon
and, though I can only
go so high,
I am who I am
because you think I can;
and the thought
of a blue balloon
against the bluest sky
makes us rise
on short breaths of helium
and optimism
and what-we-could-bes
and hope
and just a little doubt
and all of those thoughts
that keep us up
in the middle of the night,
in that half-awake place
of dreaming and reality,
when, suddenly, it is very late
and you stand with your prosecco
and me with my martini:
we stare up from the same park bench,
sharing a twine string
and a blue balloon
and a few aspirations
which will get us through
some very lonely winters
and (daily)
of the moments in between.




Copyright © 2016 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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