I speak about temporality as if it were some
beautiful, foreign monster,
caged and docile,
and I spectate safely from behind the glass.
It feels better,
somehow,
to romanticize it,
pretending poetic sadness is lighter
than its less eloquent counterpart,
namely, sobbing under shower heads
and clutching onto my arms like
I'm trying to keep my organs inside
my skin, rocking in tempo as if the inertia
of it will stop my cells from scattering
across your bed,
when my veins flare up
like gasoline on train tracks.
Nothing gold can stay,
can it, when you find a boy
with a silver heart
who starts to feel like home,
and home has never been
a place you can go
when you need it to be, and
his fingertips, the way they weave
cheap beer and cigarettes into a
safety net, *******,
and the way he says your name
like it was meant for his mouth.
The observable universe
is comprised of atoms moving
away from each other
at constantly increasing speeds,
we theorize, and
never have I been more aware of the
space between our
particles, and I wonder,
if we move fast maybe
time will slow down and
this feeling of falling
will stretch out to eternity,
and it isn't my fault that your tongue echoes,
and you never meant to be a singularity.