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Your hands are like prefix’s; you tether me to you like word play and I smile,
feeling oddly like I could glitch in and out
of happiness, like it were some distant space.
Like somewhere we could both get along while smiling, reading
words that sounded better simply because it was your
hands on my hipbone, as
They dissolved from your lips like accidents.
The way you bite your cheek is all it takes to erase me from anything my body has participated in.
I want to forget myself entirely. Like being is something completely different
than what it’s defined to be.
Tears are falling, leaking, I am weeping out subtle woes from avalanches eroded in yellow,
Feeling like a salt mine vomiting up acres of earth for someone
else’s usage
I am hollow on the inside: there’s so much you can do with me.
Translation.
I want to fall asleep in the gaps between your fingers as you’re driving
your car, Michael Jackson booming from your speakers
as you go in search of fallen starlight.
Your hands, warm globes. You taste like reliance.
I need something like you here,
sitting earnestly like there was nothing more worth waiting for.
But the echoes trace me back to trails of smoke;
tell me you didn’t crash and burn?
Even if you did, fire resistance is some of the things
they batter into brittle bones, left bodies beaten in vast waves
of apologies.
I told you the stars where the rifle wounds of people who tried to escape
the presence of us.
The hole in the Ozone layer is the decaying corpse of the only person who made it out
and shone briefly,
boosting saying:
Beauty, is simply the canvas behind
the masterpiece of everything they’ve left out here.
And how our heads were raised up, asking “How far to the next beginning?”
How we watched them burn, screaming out describing everything they could see.
But the dust motes took the syllables to pieces.
So we continued, forgetting each word they ever uttered.
As though there never was never the single person,
who stared directly into the face of god.