Full of imaginary moments,
Handshakes that shed dead skin from hands that haven’t been alive since birth.
No one wiggles their fingers anymore.
No one kicks their legs out of excitement, or falls down in frustration
But I have images of imaginary cities ignited with innocence and purity.
But not the kind of purity that creates insanity.
Not the kind that holds lust back from crossing over the edge of hip bones and covering collarbones with kisses.
It’s the kind of innocence that stems from a luscious mix of ignorance and minds open for expansion.
It’s cities that hold imaginary concerts when change jiggles in their pockets as they roam the street
And people dance to the imaginary beat that comes from standing too close to someone else in silence like their energies are competing for a spot in life’s lead role.
I can picture their imaginary hearts driving their moments in the same way.
The way sentences are finished by a foreign mouth,
Or the way grocery isles become runways to first time small talk,
And phone numbers become pinky promises.
I promise you there’s no flat tires or broken windshields.
There’s no walls or fences built around grass.
In my imaginary cities grass is made to be between naked toes and brushing the back of necks until goosebumps explode from fall-weathered skin.
In my imaginary cities
People live again.
Prompt: Imaginary Cities