Sun, 04/10/2016 - 13:42 -- Violone

With our telescope we stole looks at the stars,

sliding on pine needles stabbing softly into our backs

but it was the night that stole us.


Our eyes are the telescopes

and our faces are the stars.

One day we will have to come back down to earth

and I dread that day.


We are a crumbling brick wall

and our voices are the mortar,

binding us,

bringing us closer

and closer


intertwined in a never ending exchange,

but in the end it was never enough.

Maybe more memories meant more mortar-fire filling silence savagely since

the crack of quiet killed us both.


What it should be

it never could be,

with how WOULD it be,

with the storms, the hurricanes, the tornadoes, the crazy bag ladies

pulling at our cuffs,

our seams,

our very being,

a ticking timebomb of maybes and nevers but always never maybe always.


People call other people their rocks, but you were my meteorite.

Believe me, your words punched right through me

and you left craters.


I went back out there yesterday

with my telescope and a six pack full of all the maybes

and what could have been

but now what would have been.

I even slipped a bottle of forever hidden in there,

next to the pine needles

stabbing into my back,

the crying of the wind comforted by the tears

of the silence,

looking, whispering, yelling

at the moon.


Screaming at the moon.


But, like some sort of cruel joke

sound doesn’t travel in space,

so I don’t know if you can hear me.

This poem is about: 
My community
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