We only met
Here.
In this place where all things seem possible.
Where scorpions speak French
And chasing each other
Along the back of a brontosaurus
Is as easily done
As riding the rings of Saturn
Around a smiling sun.
Where, when you fall off the edge of the sky,
(Or perhaps you are pushed)
Your cigar stays lit
And you bounce.
So it seems like you might still be here,
Somewhere.
You liked to hide behind things.
And the elevator you built
Is gone.
As if you took it
With some purpose in mind.
So I'll stay alert
To signs in the sand
Even after I've removed
Your name from my contact list
With a sudden click
As final and precise as the moment
I heard you were gone.
Off to explore a place
With limitless prims
Where anything is possible.
—Pex Petrov
(copyright © 2007 Pex Petrov)