• "Shoot across, shoot inside, perish now, perish tonight"

    Falling down, particles and gas reflecting everything (everyone) I ever knew, and my eyes watch keenly. The grass, green and in desperate need for a cut, digs into my back, like every word he ever said. It pieces and draws out the worse of me, along with red and white blood cells. How pitiful, history repeats, just like this annual shower of disgust and dismay. Dots of water soak my shirt, my skirt, my socks, as my hands spread out, reaching for dreams and memories better left in the midnight sky.

    Blue, red, green, and yellow, sporadically collapsing on me, "You were my salvation" Is barely heard over all this disorder.

    "I'm going to start bringing my Bible to church." Oh, how those words pieced me that evening. The dark blue, that was wrapping its fingers around my throat (and of course, your ideals), couldn't understand the importance that tiny expression hold. No longer would I have an excuse to move close to the star that hung in my eye, to the brightness that warms the cold outer shell that someone else ensnared me. No longer us (suddenly half a butterfly), no longer them (without hope, we flutter away).

    Happiness, dreams, enmity, and tragedy spiral into what has truly happened; into the reality that is pushing my head under the water. He touches my cheek, there is no difference between dew and sweat, but I fear we are both still ourselves. Why did everything plunge? Why did it all defy what we hoped was real? Like a cat alone in the street, I am moaning for some sort of relief, "Please, please, please." Slowly, cruelly, he shakes away the stars in his hair and leaves me alone. Is love even adequate at this point? Is it even a synonym for what mess I had made underneath a meteor shower of rash decisions and absolute lies?

    Floating into oblivion, into a sudden disregard, my skin crawls with nitrous oxide, (my head swims with imagery of him). The world is far below; the unconscious decision to become a luminary has no regrets, and no future. Fifty-six (was it fifty seven) octaves below middle C, I hear the denial, the truth. As my flailing body shouts out "Your adoration keeps me living!" I succumb into a shooting star and miss you by just a hair.