When tomorrow comes
I want you to hold your thumb to the moon
Fit the curve of its grey whale back against your seashell nail in an ocean of starry indigo
Did you know, that no matter how bright and belonging the moon may seem
It is never larger in the sky
That your thumbprint's kiss?
I don't suppose to know what that means
But somehow it sings of some soft sadness
That something so striking could whittle down to illusion and nothing more - just a horizon and atmosphere and light and your eyes
Perhaps keep your thumb tucked tight in your fist instead
Perhaps hold a little song in your sorrow
Perhaps to believe is to see
And either way now, darling, what does it matter to you anyways?