Space – Draft

The end falls a little flat, but here’s the first draft of this one. Sorry it’s been so long!

According to some, I’m ruled by the king of planets.
According to some days,
I feel so far out and spacey
it’s like I’m in a whole other galaxy.

There are days we long to dream with the moon,
even in her waxing crescent.
We could wax poetic of her freckles and
her spotlight shows in the night.
But my flame can’t melt the words hot enough
to form a perfect puddle in her name.
Instead, I can only think about how
her beams used to shine horizons through the blinds
that rippled along the sheets as your breath drew,
in and out.
You once said I’m addicted to the night.
But I’d never write myself as an addict.

I could never let myself crack,
the same way I did when I got hooked on the speed
of how fast our love would grow.
We were zero to sixty in no time flat.
You didn’t understand me at that pace.
Even I couldn’t understand why
at any time during the day my mind
would flash images, your face, your neck,
your belly, your thigh;
my skin would goosebump and
my eyes would tear up
and I was frightened that I had lost so much control
to something as simple as your half-opened Kafka on my nightstand.

“It’s that damn moon,”
I tried to convince you.
Maybe you knew it ran deeper than that.
Maybe that’s why the night I told you
“I think my heart is going to burst,”
yours caved in like a burned out star,
and exploded from all the pressure.

I never knew you were a dying star.
One that was so far away I couldn’t have known
that you had already fizzled out.

About Ry

It's so magical, it's gay.
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