Monday, August 8, 2011


I hear the tides caving in.

(Remember when our toes used to touch.
You said, "I can see universes under your skin."
But you never saw the stars exploding,
My galaxies imploding,
Black holes everywhere - sucking me in,
Sucking you in.
You floated into the abyss,
But I was drowning. You knew I couldn't swim.)

I walked and walked again.

(Remember when we used to lay side by side.
We traced constellations on your ceiling.
You said, "Nothing is as fine as the Cassiopeia on your spine."
But I only had four moles.
The fifth one, you made it.
Put out your cigarette on my flesh.
"How beautiful," you said.
I smiled, but I can still feel the sting.)

You stole the moon's gravity,

(Remember when our fingers used to intertwine.
You said, "I can see auroras in your eyes,"
But you can't even remember the color of my pupils.
That one rainy summer afternoon
When we had coffee on your mother's bed
I asked you, "If I wasn't oxygen, 
Would you still take me in?"
You just kissed me.)

And left me by the sea.

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