i am trying to come to terms
with gravity
as i fall toward the floor
with the awareness of the your
face framed in the hall door.
that's an exaggeration—
there's a certain inaccuracy
in conversations about bodies,
personal and celestial, revolutions one around the other,
that is unavoidable due to limitations
of the form. so i like to be precise
where it can fit in between the
cumbersome dances we do.
i'm not falling toward the floor
but i might as well be. i can't tell you that.
what's wrong you ask again
but something i read about planets
is that they're much farther apart than the human mind
can even conceptualize. that most of space is empty
and cold as we dare to spin through it.
i'm thinking of the audacity of revolutions
and you just wanna know why i'm so sad.
i think about bodies. sinew and joints and the red
****** meatstuff that fills in the places in between.
a heart pumping blood and a mouth that refuses to admit it.
about the physicality, the weight of it sinking
into beds that aren't mine, bodies that aren't mine.
you're not standing in the doorway anymore, no one
stands in doorways forever. especially not
for someone who refuses ownership
of the space taken up by their own body. constellations
are outlines of disparate points someone tried to find a
story in. i'm not much better.
i think of heavenly bodies, i think of stars
but they don't tell me anything
i wasn't trying to deal with already.