One day very soon you will no longer be the slivers of other people's dreams, footsteps on the wet sand. I promise you this. You, will be. Oh, your adventures! Colossus of Rhodes with one foot firm on land and the other sea spray on tippy toes. You will come to the rebel cliffs, whipped heartbeats of itinerant circus, incandescent in spite of belly-flared and pointed laughs. You will be all the kisses, the winged, the given, and the planned, and each time it will hurt less. You will have salt and foam tears in the dark caldera, poems like arrows, volcano lit in neon. You will bury them all, except the last fear, the littlest and still, which visits when the moon is new and alone. And even so, wow, the adventures you will have, a concentric circle of love and gold, sharp like Northern tongues, and the wind in your face. Lucky shot. You deserve a heaven, and not for anything. When the fog dissipates in the pinewood summit, you will see: future indicative you will be.