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.