I speak about temporality as if it were some beautiful, foreign monster, caged and docile, and I spectate safely from behind the glass. It feels better, somehow, to romanticize it, pretending poetic sadness is lighter than its less eloquent counterpart, namely, sobbing under shower heads and clutching onto my arms like I'm trying to keep my organs inside my skin, rocking in tempo as if the inertia of it will stop my cells from scattering across your bed, when my veins flare up like gasoline on train tracks. Nothing gold can stay, can it, when you find a boy with a silver heart who starts to feel like home, and home has never been a place you can go when you need it to be, and his fingertips, the way they weave cheap beer and cigarettes into a safety net, *******, and the way he says your name like it was meant for his mouth. The observable universe is comprised of atoms moving away from each other at constantly increasing speeds, we theorize, and never have I been more aware of the space between our particles, and I wonder, if we move fast maybe time will slow down and this feeling of falling will stretch out to eternity, and it isn't my fault that your tongue echoes, and you never meant to be a singularity.