you get older.
you realize things.
early morning things, sleepless night things,
crow’s feet things. they scratch at the sides of your eyes
and you find yourself constantly rubbing them,
like you could rub away a decade or two with the backs of your hands.
you realize that you can’t.
those sorts of things.
you find that the world is round only because when we loosen the muscles of our hands,
they curl into shells, round and cavern like.
I find that I can hear the ocean when you cup my face.
we echo into each other and travel and find that the horizon
bends like a prism, and we bend with it, into each other,
again and again,
supple and close and soft.
iii. the sky is not always blue. the sun is not always shining,
it is burning up the galaxy and eating away at the atmosphere of Mercury,
it is flaring and interfering with the electricity.
the lights go out and I light candles and dip my fingers into the wax.
they don’t burn, but I do.