I

Whether it is behind and hidden
or bare and in front
the thing itself makes me stir
every single day.

Because I am a secret thing
myself.
Here, I can feel my skin, feel the feel,
and still not discover the thing
discover me.

And when one has lost his visions
(back to where those things came)
he cannot make himself out of these either
anymore.

So he lifts upon his shoulder
a thing unknown. Deemed
unbearable.
Spends his days trying to
make amends for things that are
long closed, blackened and
irretrievable.
Continuously falls in love
again with
the occurrence of them
their beginnings and their endings.

II

But there is no painless way to leave
this thing, marked in your voice and birth
and name.

And if I were to write you a poem
about this thing, it would be just a
river of questions, crashing upon
a skull desirous to melt and flow at last
with it—wherever, till whenever.

And yet
there actually is a thing called a sun
that is not an idea in a sky but
a star in a space
of burning gases, exploding and slowly
extinguishing itself, next to us, too.

III

Soon I will know gravity,
become its acceleration. Become the pull
of all things into each other.

IV

Eventually
we all forget why we cried about this thing.
For yesterday could have been years ago.
And tomorrow you could be just about to
die, reaching forward, done waiting, those final
moments.
But today is today. Now will always be now.
And is
is only.

At which point we cry again
overwhelmed now
with very different tears, by the very same
thing.