On Nico Stai and Falling Stars

Published January 3, 2015 by April Fox

I wonder what happened
to Nico Stai
with his sloppy voice, as if his words were drunk
and he was sober singing, trying
to bring them safely home

He spoke of falling skies and I was trying
to hang on
while the clouds and stars and sun
lay at my feet

You sent me Victor Hugo and I read you Dylan Thomas
and although I wasn’t mad as birds, I must have gone
a little crazy, in the hours I lay restless
stupid sick insomniac
remembering the cadence
of each sentence that you spoke

I built a vault inside my head to keep you in,
away from everything
that hurt

I sent you pictures of the moon
and we were corduroy and woodsmoke,
constellations hanging over
threatening to crash
and burn us up

In the dark, your hand still feels the same
stretched across my back
and in your sleep, you sigh just like you did
the night that you broke free
and kept the sky
from falling in.

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