if I went searching I'd find you in the sky,
again, inebriated and make-believing you
can really breathe stars.
if I tried to take you back, you'd weep
your glass tears and slur together the
meanings of "wait" and "I know"
(no weight, hollow)
you'd try to paint your mind
on the wall, always the misunderstood
artist- maybe in a divine exposition,
people could finally hear you and
that little world would writhe in your hands,
barbed and entwined; the currents carry
your whispers (but no one ever hears)
you're choking on the remorse lodged in
between the vertebrae of your throat,
the people who were never real, the
letters to God yet unsent
(you couldn't bear the chance he
you never counted on this- no one
told you we have an expiration date
stamped into our wrists, and
you just want Life to float over
and nestle in your ears "you've
done it, sweetie" in liquid tones.
she'll kiss your seeping wounds, so
softly, "c'est la mort," with splintered
teeth, and it'll be enough.
you're still intoxicated, dear. no one's
insides are celestial semblances .
people weren't built to breathe dust.