here, with adjectives neatly stacked
like hierarchal pawns
eyes blurred, caffeine burning like the things i used to do
(i’m older now
and don’t get high on life
or anything)
i want to walk outside and see the stars
to taste them, though
to climb the air that reeks of disappointment
thick and fetid
coddled, making steps-
and touch them
burn my lips and fingers with the
impossibility of
being up there
touching anything
not falling.

to describe them, though
fuck
i’m so sick of words that i could spit
there aren’t any left
i haven’t used
hyperbole grows tired in the wrinkles of my brain
settles down and dies and i am
watching
from my perch up in the atmosphere
the dark makes black feel just like sunlight

tiny specks are flowers, people, trees
others say we look like ants-
we don’t.

we look like simple atoms, once-celled organisms
blind and stupid
reproducing without thinking
breeding, separating skin from skinless
skin
torn in two evolving
-not so much-
into something quite
ridiculous

that burns itself on stars
and sews its mouth shut in the
shyest hours
of the day.