if you look up, you will see the bright-eyed and the wide-mouthed— the interesting, the casual, the adored glistening in the warm night peered at through microscopes and telescopes and stethoscopes far and far away
we are so desperate to be close close and close and close enough to see the blemishes the scarring and the peeling effaced by obvious and biased inner-commentary they’re just not as red or sore as mine perhaps they were formed under a different kind of sun
what does the unfamiliar heart say? does it sound at all like mine? will i ever escape the sloppy grasp of dullness? will the world swallow me whole? if i count the days on both hands on toes, on eyelashes— if i only eat green things and read tattered books and pretend that i don’t mind—will i ever break the mirror? will i find seven years of good luck between the jagged edges?
to exist as a reflection is to not exist at all there are lonely, dark purple heavens waiting for you to sever your longing gaze to stop lying to yourself to hop onto the back of the cow and begin living somewhere beyond the moon— to realize, with closed eyes you belong to the sky