aperture

the galaxy is sick

Of controlling the earth,in which you occupy

while drowning in my English breakfast tea,in the garden

i am counting the ways my bones could break

if I fell

I am subtracting the ways

I have withdrawn.

here's who Ive silently become 

pacing. with my own two feet. I cant even bear the noise they make

each move-ment

 I cringe 

I think

I weep

And how was it that this all made sense last night?

I thew up my flag and followed you down that black beach

it must of been sunday

mistakes are often made on sunday

then tucked under a matress

and we don't speak of it

when the lord yells hide

we always seem to seek

about last night

obliged or obligated

even standing next to

or sitting underneath

that stunning masterpiece

on 12th and 16th

your hands

your beard 

your neurotransmitters become so linked

with my own. and we are one. and I've won. 

and you are won-derfully handsome.

I walked home that nite with six whole dollars in my hand

and a goldfish in a see through bag

in the left.

she was dying. 

I could feel it. 

 swimming but she didn't mean it

just as we live our lives

don't you think?

I fall into a sleep

around 234

i am controlled by the consistencies that are out of my control

ironic or interesting.

the neighbors same record on repeat

cloudy mornings with dylan 

bedtime with the king

I open up my sketchbook around 5 am

and theres this song in the background about

a hummingbird type of girl

I draw two circles on a page

(THESE  ARE PLANETS)

somehow I remember to write:

the galaxy is sick

of controlling the gravitational pull

of your heart

and your blood

underneath.