Are we in some way not gelatin or wing flutters

 or scales of silver moons?

The cosmos consume a closer territory,

as we succeed in forgetting the sea.

Do you press past the cerulean dream?

Flowing between flesh, bronzed by the yellow star.

 Are you not fearful of adolescent curiosity—a science experiment

of castles and plastic shovels.

Pick me apart in the way you inevitably end up;

a piece of translucent slime

that begs to be poked and pried.

 Pride.

 I apologize for my dismay,

floating disc of spectral, squishy substance.

 I am nothing but blood-living and warm blood

that seeps like crystal rivers through grooves

of tangling vines. Still, I do not understand

 the weight behind existence like you do.

 Or lack of. Still, I shudder and draw back

 at the touch of unknown fingers, and

 reach for the brim despite the radiating heat

 possessing the pulsating, cool womb.

Take me with you.

 I am opaque and cluttered.

 I envy you gliding and insightful

 as a fistful of nothing.