your tissue paper moon--

i.
it's your birthday in four and a half days
and my present to you is the moon hanging from a silver thread
(a constellation mobile for those nightmarish hours
when insomnia keeps your eyes glued to the transparent ceiling)
but it isn't really.
i just can't find anything good enough for you,
anything i know would make your world shine as brightly as it should,
and even if i could
i doubt i'd have enough blue-gold tissue paper to wrap it
or fit it in a cheerful gift bag on your front porch.
(and i also doubt i could get it for you
for three dollars and fourty seven cents.)

ii.
these days, i am dreaming about you
and these nights, i can't bear to fall asleep.
window shopping has always been my favorite sport
but every reflection in the corner of my eye is yours upside down
and those colorful silk scarves don't spin in twirls of laughter
the way they do when they know you're watching.

iii.
i bought ice cream-
raspberry sorbet
because it was happy to see me.
no, i'm eating healthily, you know that,
but ice cream tastes exciting and i have the aftertase of possibility
lingering on my tongue for hours after the last drop is licked away.
i want beautiful things
and crunchy sugar cones
and crinkled leaves under my feet on a bright autumn morning
but only if you're there to run through them with me
or crunch the tip of your cone like a messy little boy
just to make me laugh.

iv.
maybe i could get you the zoo
and we could set all the animals free
and race tigers around the popcorn machines
and chase penguins down fake-polar icicle slides
and ride kangaroos around in a race to the gift shops.
'let's get a fish,'
your green eyes sparkling at me,
'let's get two fish
and let's name them.
something crazy but very, very clever.'
i don't care what we'd name one fish or a million
or what colors would grace their sparkling kaleidoscope scales,
as long as i'm the one who gets to point them out to everyone
and say,
see those?
those are our fish.

v.
it doesn't snow here
but you know i've always dreamed that it would.
i crave frostbitten toes
and warm woolen red hats
and chattering teeth and freezing hands shaping snowmen
and hot cocoa by the fireplace
(you can't have cocoa without mini marshmallows)
with you
snuggled under the same blanket.
i'm trying to count snowflakes,
one by one, through the frosted windows
(i can still see the smiley you traced in with your pinkie)
and you're laughing at me for thinking i can tell one from another
but before you know it,
you're counting too, pressed against my shoulder;
'cheater! cheater! that's the same one twice!
three for me then, i'm not letting you win yet'

vi.
will you make me a daisy chain?
no, i'll make you a daisy crown
and you can be a princess instead.
like Rapunzel?
no silly, you like that movie too much.
i do! and you like it because i like it.
maybe. hold still.
my head isn't that big!
everyone's head is that big. pass me that daisy.
this one?
no, the little one, on the right.
okay, here. why this one?
it's the prettiest.
how can you tell?
it reminds me of you;
i said hold still!

vii.
i saw a pile of presents under an oak tree today,
and i thought it was the most wonderful thing i'd ever seen
at the moment.
i laughed and spun and danced in gleeful circles
in that field of orange wildflowers
hidden away where nobody knows
and i thought of rain and warm cookies and the way your hoodies smell
like you.
i told you life was beautiful
and you replied with a smile.

viii.
it's your birthday in four and a half days
and i haven't got you anything at all.
you are my present, silly boy,
and our dialogues spoken in crisp autumn-morning silences
are the gift wrapping,
messy and wrinkled and covered in tape
and absolutely, breathtakingly
beautiful.
i'll wrap my smile in guitar chords
and hold it up to the sun
and wonder if wishing the world for you
can ever be enough.