He couldn’t be sundered from his dreams any more than a shadow cut from the frame that casts it. They were his midnight strolls. Every forlorn footstep took him closer to learning the poem that was his existence. If he could hold the words in his head then — maybe — his skull would weigh enough to tip forward, a jolt so strong that he remembered how to fly.
There are people that glow; and there are those who cast a darkle of greatness, dust collecting around their outline. They were kindred fools in search of respite from a lazy reality. Both wanting a truth to be etched onto the back of their necks, forever marked in imperceptible ink.
And you, you grew so tall — hit the ceiling — bumped your head on Polaris or Alpha Centauri or your grandmother’s lampshade. Those cascading tears eroding your makeup. Your redistributed sadness as nebulaic patches across the floor. I would wonder: could you eat a finger and scratch your throat to find the words half swallowed?
The look you offered was enough to cut an incision so deep that the moths in my rib-cage escaped. One caught the raw night-wind, rode it up to the mesosphere to choke itself to death. As it fell back to the aching ground, the patterns on the wings hoped you’d catch them. You didn’t. There was you, heavenly. And lifelessness had made a dent in the natural fabric of reality. A balance, I suppose, though my eyes were so skewed, it seemed off-kilter.