We are held and holding onto ourselves like a latch clasped shut atop the finest pine.
We sung ourselves across further into daybreak.
I lost a piece of something awful the day your name etched into my solar plexus.
I can’t snag the cord long enough to send a signal uptown through the tips of angels fingers.
In a second, we’d be lifeless.
In a moment, I’ll have crossed the border between alive and disappeared.
It is in this fragmented shard of what we cry out into existence that we realize our hands weren’t built to cup the outlines of our ears.
They were meant to hold and be held between the lines of something fine lined and infinite.
They were meant to trace the silhouette of each day until it’s been hollowed out and excavated.
Curved out to hold your form so immeasurably that the sun, himself, did take your swerve of a smile for one deep seated, boundless valley.
I can’t breathe in deep enough.
The tail end would surely cause a landslide.