I'm stuck sitting in
the mezzanine,
legs-crossed in
the dark
being pulled
so many ways,
and I'm praying
beam me up,
beam me up
for the love of symphonies and
melodies,
abstract orchestral harmonies,
beam me up.

and I'm crumpling plans
in my hands
that I've went over and over
diagrams
of how to
work-things-out
which way to lean in-
to the wind and when
to let it pull
me up

These wings aren't
made for
flying
or softening
my fall,
and my arms weren't made
to find somebody new.
My hands weren't made
to take the pain
of the push, the grab, the pull
of knowing
I'm not
going up,
beaming anywhere with you.