/before thirty/

Goodnight, moon. I looked out of my window and into the sky tonight – it was huge, deeper that the sea, and i could not discern the unabyssed black as nothing at all or everything at once. But that is no matter. I have seen now that the two are the same, and to waste an unlived past is to live in a cozened parody of death. To live forever requires one’s release of the caged and living present. Hark, it flutters at the honeycomb gates. It is hard for me to unlock doors, and the sulphur ones are¬†manslaughter. Just when the possibility of life had scooped me up and lifted me close enough to the sky to count the stars. I want a backstory, i want a past that is long and fiery and inflamed with not-me, but ultimately i am a midnight bedlamite. Starving descendant of the gods. Penurious child of the universe. Cosmic sister of a befouled race. So many lights. So many brothers. Pater and Mater waving from their tortoise-drawn carriage in a cerulean sky. And then from the shrapnel bursting came you. You were a fire. You were frigid. But you were vacuous in your vast emptiness, your undulating possibility, and to touch your silver craters and kiss every pus-ridden moonstone and thumb those dust-rock flaps and overhangs again i would have fallen a million times over.