That blue hour.

Here you go, adoring fans. The first of many poems I've written for my creative writing class.

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That Blue Hour

In that blue hour,

when the stars are within reach,

you meet me,

you take my hand,

and we will fly.

Yes, we will soar above the world of impossibilities,

and of the persistent clamor of time,

and when we land,

the stars will become fireflies,

dancing against a backdrop of black,

and as we spin,

a sweet, distant breeze will stroke our faces.

And nothing will matter anymore,

we will be too far away,

in our clandestine world of black and white.

But all my hope cannot hold those fireflies close,

they will dart again to their holes in the sky,

as the ambient light radiates,

like a slow burning flame,

piercing the darkness,

deeper,

until a great spindle of light consumes the horizon in a fiery blaze.

And we will watch our world melt and crack,

like a delicate sheet of glassy ice,

and our hands will loosen their grasps as we fall,

through the flames,

down,

once more to our separate cages.

As dawn reduces twilight to ashes,

and Aurora sings the harsh sun into the sky,

my eyes will open to see wavelengths of red and orange,

smoldering through the window pane.

And you will be as far from me as the stars are once again,

a distant memory,

a hopeful dream,

a frozen image confined to my surreal, imagined world,

like of one Dalí’s elephants,

or a single shooting star,

light-years away,

whose tail disappears in a wave of daylight,

almost as soon as it catches my eye.