A/N: Evi convinced me to do this. This is not my own will. Blame her.
--
- What we may be -
We’re loosely wired things, and easy to break
with peach-skinned fingertips, with the space
they filled like stars, cosmic things shoved into bodies,
fleshed and warm. Tonight we can see them,
bloated in the streets from plasma bitten
between gravity and their jawline
like they might collapse from theories,
thoughts of heaven right above them.
- Brain -
your eyes turned blue when a comet planted itself
between your ears. and shattered into ice,
like every thought exploded, so you could hear
every semitone, a heartbeat through their ribs.
Slow and slowing through petalring bones,
because anything red and pulsing
dies eventually (red giants too) and
it makes you grind your tail of thoughts
between Mercury and Mars like dusty red molars.
- Thought/ Lungs -
Thinking is like breathing out nebulae,
where dust (and hydrogen) make the air
sweet around you. And sometimes you can taste it
in the back of your throat, the flavours of rips in the sky,
bulges and pulses in your brain. Streams
and wavelengths that fuse and shatter like glass,
sparking flare stars.
- Heart -
Fibrils are warm and guided clusters
that fall loose and swirl cold. And sometimes meteors
streak light so bright it scorches the arteries sealed,
envelopes for summer letters and corollas of flowers
that you buried in those molecular clouds,
with puffed wax seals
- Skin -
I’d like to keep the world in a case
that would be flushed in the cheeks from the weight.
Atoms hacked out curves for my vessel, blazing traces
of the sun along the edges. Skin melts like wax
if it gets too warm, why should we stay away from the sun
while Mercury sits too close. Heat is infatuating;
such a foolish promised thing. Sometimes,
I wonder if I could peel the sun like peaches,
slices in my hands, cool and tickled skins that touch
each other gingerly and sugar dripping down the tips.
- Nerves -
It’s when you bite down on the moon
with your front teeth, or when it falls just out of reach,
past your horizon.
Neurons explode just outside your window at daybreak,
light from long ago might reach you today
and whisper stories to the wind.
The synapses taste like they did a week ago,
like something sweet
and burns on it’s way down.
It’s like you swallowed the moon for your brain
to see with it’s own two eyes.
- Bones -
I think that after we skin the night sky,
planets hold us up. Quiet textured souls,
that sometimes I wish I could split in half,
to see if it’s rocks or marrow that we can roll
in between our fingers – Crack them into canyons
with the flick of your wrist so you might plant blossoms
like tulips that you’ll name Jupiter,
if they’re red but then you’d polish them white
and replace every planet with your own hybrid blossom.
- Blood -
You could push hydrogen through your veins,
and have it collapse into stars
like it might detach itself from your heart completely.
It’s strange to think gas and dust keep us running
and make those stars shine before letting it collapse
to start again. Sometime you can hear molecular clouds
in your ears, when you look out the window on a rainy day
or breathe in the tulips from yesterday.
I hear it when I run my fingers down your cheek
the pulse at the front of my skull. Or when I eat peaches,
but maybe because they remind me of you, or fruits
tickle the plasma in my veins and paint me in orange dust.
- What we are -
We must be something like stars,
or a starburst. Blinking and growing
until we tear ourselves apart
so much faster then we should.
Some would admire us from afar,
streamlined us through a telescope
before we fade from thought and mind.
When eyes are elsewhere we’re still here,
shaking the plasma from our hair. And I can taste it
on my tongue, it tastes like space and some fruits maybe.
