I offered myself to the skies

I offered the skies a garden.

As if I was born solely to reach out but to never touch even the tips of its fingers. That I live just to wait for its tears to kiss my skin, for the raindrops to travel through the hollows of my ribcage and maybe, if I wait long enough, if I stayed rooted to the place where the hurricanes dance—the emptiness in my heart will finally be filled with rainwater. Maybe, I could pretend that the flowers that bloom on the cracks of my veins are not from the pain and the mourning of my death. Maybe, someday I will be able to grow sunflowers too that I may finally know how to adore the soft warmth of the morning sun. That I may finally find happiness to be more beautiful than the loneliness of a cold stormy night.

But until then, I will offer the clouds a garden. I will bloom under its gaze and I will wither with the dreams of being in the safety of its arms. And with each breath that I take, I live to someday become one with the universe.