I would pocket, 

in little jars,

of thick glass,

and screw on tops:

The soft breeze, 

and the secrets they whisper,

The golden rays,

in the morning’s shiver, 

And the blaze,

of the afternoon sun.  

So when you’re full of stress

and your breath shakes,

when your hair’s a mess,

in its blond ponytail,

I will be there,

to open my jars,

and paint little drops,

Of something called stars, 

against the dark.

And when the pressure hits,

and your eyes start to tear,

under the layer of makeup,

that starts to smear, 

I will be there, 

to open them once again, 

to free a space,

for just you and me,

A secret little place, 

where you can crumble, cry, and be.

When you’re all alone, 

lost and trapped,

in the town you call home, 

I promise, my friend, 

I will be there.