I left my midnight shifts
and stepped into their spaceship.
The grass was thrown into purple light,
a royal carpet between my toes and
all with no scorch marks left behind.
I had wanted something
flesh-and-blood to believe in.
They would stroke my back
until I fell asleep, purring rolls of sound
through vibrations in my spine,
into the epicentre of The Electron
and its throbbing, binaural flute.
I left the planet on a whim
with common strangers
who understood the distance of stars,
but more importantly:
how to get there.

not every poem is about beauty
too caught we are in the moment to write about it
that is what makes it beautiful
pain clings long beyond instants
prolongs and window reflections
engulfing our bones
masticating our stomachs
from slow drip bile coffeemakers in our chest
the line from that one song starts the burning
and the eyes of a stranger flavored with reminders
i wish i could tell him i finally got to ____
my blood is chunked with tomato slices
acidic clots and stagnant passions
float me in melancholy perplexities
a minute of oddity where emotions
are unidentifiable

now You're attatched
to every
song I
love and
still I
let Them
play