terminal.

you make me feel like
crushed black pedals from the wings of butterflies,
the metallic remains on the dead grass of an accident site,
the canary that hits and
slowly slides down the glass window in the
train terminal.

all this while making me feel like
i am lucky
to have the opportunity to feel the
sadness of the streets
to feel the ache inside my heart
to feel your skin on my skin
to feel like you're promise is actually worth
feeling like falling in love with you
and not feeling like falling out

in spite of the butterflies that lose their wings,
in spite of the birds that fly
but never learn to sing.

you make me feel like i could never leave.

and so we're terminal,
or are suicidal?

you make me feel like there might be
an answer that clears the stains of
these small fragile deaths,
and open up some kind of endless window that
stretches on to my hundredth birthday-

terminal.
because no matter the torment,
it's worth being able to feel.

bones are made for holding holes

To answer your question,

No, I am not a skeleton,
as hard as I have tried to be.
It turns out my flesh grows layers around my bones
and yes, I'll let you count them.

No, I do not understand how or why or when
these changes took place
and if the gaps will continue to cover with some
summer skin and stretch and fill and
wrap around the wound
you so insist on

seeing

just for confirmation that it's not truly there,
or maybe just for peace of mind
that comes from knowing
you did not create anything incapable of
covering the hole
you feel as though you yourself created.
and for this you continue to ask

am i still a skeleton?

No.
But I'll allow you to reach through empty spaces
skin and bones and
either only the darkness where the flesh should be
or
the empty space where adjustment could still sneak in and
spread all the way through
all the way up to the "off" button on
your guilt

and no one else will understand why we don't turn back

You're laying on your back,
arms folded loosely behind your head
and you point up to the mural countries of
stars and say
"that one",
"that is where we're going next."

I smile up at the distant dreams
and grab the roots of
autumn leaves
and my fingers fold back into themselves.

Somehow you've allowed me to reject everything I've ever learned of science.

To fly to the stars is simply the dream of a child
without the proper spaceship and spacesuit and
what do you even want to go to the stars for?
They are already beautiful and you will burn.

Science is a lie, I am afraid:
Hiding their secret that with a brilliant astronaut
no feat is too far or impossible
and they forget- I am already on fire.

So we touch our palms to the crinkling leaves
igniting our jet packs, and to some degree,
each other.

Science tells it's latest lie-
we're tiny fools, exploding in the sky.

and I say,
let them listen.

below, everybody loves the scent of embers,
and i love the way you smile
when you're looking up.