hey, outer space, can you hear me,
from where I am, here on this speck of dust
this spinning speck of dust
in the grand scheme of things, that's all we are
a spinning speck of dust

an angry child's mental canvas
all wild fingers and wasted cans of paint, wasted empty cans of memories
where we are more than just bodies of water and bodies of land
we're bodies of blood and bodies of tears
in the form of stick figures on that canvas
where we hide who we used to be be
like the fossils of forgotten dinosaurs in closed exhibits in museums

we cannot see them but we hear them roar
a deep rumble starting at our core, an earthquake in our chests that makes our bones quiver
we may not know them here
but it is enough to feel them here – here
where who you used to be is in display,
no plexiglass or signs begging “do not touch the art, please.”

where you are there for all those who wander far enough to see
and if they have wandered far enough to see then they have earned the right to touch
to experience who you used to be
to know the colors that flash behind your eyelids when you close your eyes and remember

the explosions of yellow when you think of elementary school trips to the park
and the the brilliant swirls of blue – your mother's eyes have a shade all their own
her frustrated screams the green of the weeds that grew in her garden and drove her crazy
twisted purple half circles all your tumbles down the stairs
you were always such a clumsy child,
stumbling over things like books and bags and truths and lies and trusts – and shoes.
you were always tripping over your shoes that you left lying around the house like hopes and dreams.

your mother never could get you to clean up after yourself and now all those hopes and dreams
lead like fallen bread crumbs to who you used to be
and then they twist and turn – a right here, a left there
out of your past and into the gift that is your present.

because it's not always about who you were,
it is not always about the past, just like it's not always about the grand scheme of things.
you can't always swim against the currents of life,
you can't always keep your head above the waves of the grand scheme of things
no one will begrudge you a repose in the comfort of old times, the warmth of the colors of your past.

without every canvas that is every human soul there would be no grand scheme of things
there would be no us
and there would be no spinning speck of dust.
we would be just empty wasted cans of memories and paint.