Wednesday, December 15, 2021


With hindsight, 
distance sometimes wears a halo 
of affection.

After all, 
something dark—

something ignorant—
connects the stars;

what must it feel like
to pass that gap
between them, 

to love that thing most 
which you'd never 
come back to—

what sort of next-
level closeness 
does that reflect? 


If you were to watch me 
from the porthole 

of a fast enough rocket, 
at a far enough distance, 

would I smear out 
like an arpeggio 
of notes?

would the last thing I told you 
remain ripe 
in my throat?

When you go, 
I can only hope to remain 
frozen to this spot,

so that, from your point 
of view, 

I will always be 
saying this.