there is no Noah-gene abounding of me
no spin of the wheel offering another lifespan allowance equal to what you’ve long since spent
in silence, find truth
there is no infinite number of star-filled skies
no take-backs or do-overs, despite my shouts of forgiveness and this miracle heart transplant
in truth, find silence
I know what I want
Should I first ask to depose the light?
Let it chase me round and round
Me — play hard to get?
But at this point in human history
For what purpose?
With time unubiquitous
If not now, when?
With stars and firmament acting finite
To what end?
My soulmate constellation
The big deal in the sky, to me
Oh, how you rocked my statuesque space
And, more so, mocked me
Be there any hour, any hemisphere
That might set fixed these spinning bodies?
Not Hell-bent for the stars
I must go
I must be
I must give what is ours
If you look
If you ask
If you promise what’s true
You will find
You will learn
You will become who’s you
Not falling stars
Nor momentary shooting stars
Nor echoes in the dead of night
Not half-attempts at anything
Nor abstract things
Just real things
Artist Credit: Tiger R.; at various ages
I always step outside, in the daylight and in the dark, and see whether I see stars, and ask whether they see me, and, notwithstanding the clouds or the position of the sun, I do beseech them, tell me: Do you see him, is he outside seeing you, asking and beseeching too, and is he looking this way…my way?
Why will I never meet the scars, the stars I’d wished to kiss
The puzzle pieces I knew I could fit together, if given a lifetime
Why will my fingers never fumble and finally find the picture of you
How big the whole of you, the hole left in me