it's like breathing in outerspace
my
oh
my
so profound the cluster fuss
that years of hanging from the vine
hoping that you'd pick me and dust
me off with your tongue
feels cerebral
rather than just plain love lorn.
i say IT'S LIKE BREATHING IN
asteroids, comets, space dust,
splattered paint, dwarf stars
and little rocks twined around her
finger.
it's the pulse of a star as you flicker
the switch a million times or,
playing my heartbeat: a million more.
your hand is on the hand of another,
it's tuesday, i imagine soup and day old bread
in an apartment where every step bounces skin
pinballing jars, reliquaries, full of my tears
and it's still tuesday and i see you out the window
with a winsome smile and a man in shorts with
mocha coloured skin, and i plead the heavens
to explode and that gravity will pull you through my
window but the nob is stuck and the air in here
is still or sucked out and maybe by throat is
wet or dry and i sip at my godless offering
and you're sliced, stabbed, shredded by the window pane
crashing through you and before you is a mirror
and you see only my feet as i am rushed past
you through the sky and into the sun
and i am dead a million times or more
than the time i died when you left me and
it's like breathing outerspace
but really it's like being human
and not wanting to be all at the same damn time.
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