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,
bringing us 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 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.