|
Pinpricks
by Steph Post And sometimes even breathing Can be crushing. Look up. A thousand tiny stars burning down. A thousand upon a thousand, in the cupped space Between my palms. And still it is too heavy. And still it is too much. Because every star could be a person And every person is someone I could Love, if only. But I hate eating and parking lots and novels Written in first person. I love orange juice cartons, square Like a little house, the roof pinched between my Fingers, swinging at my side. But I’m sure that’s not enough. Will it ever be enough? When the weight of the stars and the people, with Their words, glances, shrugged shoulders, silence Retweets, echoes, parties, spiraling into families, into Clusters of eyes, inside looking out Pushes me down, I think of the fish. With their mouths open, gasping In a bar, on a show, on a channel. Everyone else is laughing. Bowed heads, fingers on wrists, conversations, connections Holding their beers like the fish Can breathe. And I am running out into The night, haunted By the gasping of the fish. And the smiles of the fishermen. On the show. In the place. And the human race, tumbling around me, Falling in and out of love. In and Out of love. And sometimes I think, I could Fall too. Sometimes, I think If I were a star and you were a star and You and you and you, but I love foxes and dust and documentaries about caves. I love that moment when the light changes And the world shimmers and the curtain Lifts and there is no sky bearing down. I think, You might know the one. I think That I am breathing. I think, One day. All the stars will be gone. |
|
