collider

fuck physicists
who don’t know about us, how
we lust and love and
fuck and yell and cry and sweat
and oh my god,
i am so tired. have been since
the day i arrived,
but you’re tired
too. and yet— brilliantly,
you are a constellation that
keeps changing, flitting, flirting,
fitting. we are sultry matter
circling and swirling. go faster to
see what happens when we crash
into each other once more, drawn
like magnets in the breakdown.

the comedown

cooling off and exhaling
as i grab the hose to
take a drink? one of the best
liminal spaces. it is a fleeting moment
where i feel at peace, grasping
onto it like the chains of a swing
or the perfect morning wood. sleepy
and languid, stretching and sweaty.

just one more moment, please.

highly illogical

what does space smell like? metallic
or clean? burnt. i am a decaying
star. getting sucked
into a black hole, scratching at any
thing i can to hold back. my mind spirals
off its axis and it takes an
entire goddamned mission control
chain-smoking room to get on with it.

the only things keeping me going are pounding the pavement and
your mercy. some days
it subtly creeps in; all i want is
to go limp and relinquish to the
vacuum, but i resist. the edges of
my vision blur, the suffocating silence
holds me in its infinite arms. then
the pop of gravity on my back,
one foot in front of
the other. grounded for the foreseeable.

i want so badly to
float away and finally rest, but i’ll
stay here instead.
rest is for quitters.

energy

something imperceptible to anyone but
us, hairline fracture tweak and shift.
the air tastes different as the clouds
hang low. the house feels off as my
laundry piles higher like tower 2,
begging to be else
where. i’ve put it all off
for too long.

sullen leaves blend with the trash, yet i
won’t avoid the crunch on the
street where i live. a dull hum hangs in both
the air and my head, the energy
different for both of us. cooking
is now an Everest to conquer, and my
brain kernel panics.

how will things look this time
next year, and
the year after that?

same as it ever was, even
upside down. we are still each
other, spun out.

the good // the bad

the good— no longer do i have to endure
the same tall tales, the nostalgia, the
discrete blowjobs, every last “you’re so
cool”. not that you aren’t, but it
gets old feeling like a violently
collapsing star in your universe
of yes men. i have
never felt less sure of
myself, more minute
than i did standing by your side.

the bad— our shared language was
hiroshima’d in my backyard, photostrips now a mausoleum.
i’ve tucked them away one
by one. you never gave me credit for
jokes or photos, and now, the
pieces will never
fit again. we clash vying for
the same love. i hate how i miss the
way you pomp your hair, the
deliberate way your hands move
flipping the record. bloodies and wry
smiles and shared dirty jokes, zapped.

i am tired of this dynamic.