I think I was down to earth before I met you,

But you were never one for staying rooted.

You decided to craft the gravel I imprinted into my water-raisined fingers

Into iron, it comes from space apparently.

 

I thought that meant we could be a team,

And we held pools of galaxies within eggshells for a little while;

You said the oval meant we were infinity,

But I slipped and the yolk squelched on to the tile floor,

And you can’t really pick it back up again.

 

Trust has a way of being slippery;

You’ve gotta hold it just right.

 

Even so, I tried fixing it with washi tape and watercolor,

Except a water base doesn’t stick to stardust,

But we were a mesh of smiles and songs I couldn’t separate.

When I dropped you, my other hand fumbled trying to save you,

And a part of me broke too.

 

Only, stars didn’t seep out of my faultines.

Sometimes an egg is just an egg, and that makes sense

When it comes to me.

When it comes to me, I’m just the earth, kinda rough around the edges.

 

So I’m sorry if I seem a little weird after you said you want talk constellations with me again;

I’ve finally learned that an eggshell

Is a terrible place to keep a heart, but I indulged you anyway.

 

While you were looking for Polaris,

I talked about how I’ve stitched a nebula into a monologue for a play I’d written.

You said “I hope you were thinking of me.”

 

I said yes, which was a lie,

Because the truth is when you were gone,

I’d allowed myself to burrow deeper instead of outward.

When I pull night across my shoulders like a cloak, it’s because I want to.

But I still remember how to look down since I always had a knack for finding treasures.

 

While you orbited ‘round the solar system,

I learned how to stomp roots straight through concrete.

I built myself a cottage out of pennies,

Saved my wishes for my happiness,

Crafted necklaces out of the keychains I stepped on by accident.

My home is a little rusty.

The welcome mat is some leftover paper

From when I was up till midnight making a collage.

 

The canyon behind my home hasn’t tasted rain since last year,

But isn’t it beautiful

To be scraggly at the corners,

Split ends far as the eye can see.

Willing the clouds to spill life instead of wishing for a shooting star.