I crossed oceans in your eyes,
felt the sunlight of Andromeda.
But when it rained this morning,
I drowned in the poverty
of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
When will we eat the fancy food
in rooftop cafes, galaxies away,
listening to different languages of music and touch,
staring at the beginning?
. . . Andromeda burn.
I am not coming.
It is too late in my life to make the journey.
I will stay on the planet
where it sill rains under gray clouds.
I do not deserve the rain of the water-color-green colors.
Let her kiss different lips, boyish lips,
underneath such vibrant settings.
I like to climb up hillsides on Earth,
feeling the dirt underneath my hands.
This inspires me to shape pitchers for water,
to shape them for storage, banquet, and orgy.
I am still a water-drinker,
I remember a lady far away in the Andromeda System.
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