I'm a romantic, even when girls flip. I choose not to dip even when it's over, the home planet of love knows a thousand rovers, and they all leave tread-marks in yesses and not nos.
The yesses of coming back and back for more moon rocks, because no jewel can make you more confused.
So when the planes march across the sky in a cluttered night, I stumble over marlboros and trip over the hope for tommorrow.
The hope that I could someday return to the reaches of your farthest star.
It's such an escape when I feel your loving embrace your tiny body with its gargantuan gravity.
I've never hugged someone, the way I hugged you.
Put me on the back of your warping love, because I could fall anytime and the atmosphere could rain in acorns as I look for the dropping sky.
I'll always fall for your games, and I'll re-enter with a broken heat-shield waiting to break my neck and teeth and heart over the heat you yield in uncountable atoms.
In the smallest manner I pander, trying to get you back over messages travelling like radio waves across a galaxy with a black hole at its heart.
The beep, beep, beep, can travel forever uninterrupted, but when it hits a raw body, it falters.
So I'll let the knees of my heart, bend at the altar of your far-off blob of life.