My fingers break the intangible air,

I imagine

victory,

or some sweet defeat,

breaking point,

the blood of the sky

pouring down my

assailant hands

sweet liquid

invisible

but I feel

it.

 

I imagine your

loving but cold

hands

rubbing

all the sore spots

on my broken back

from too many nights

up screaming at life

trying to manipulate it

like i did all those poor

sad broken

left-behind

people I used to

feel so close to but now

we all float apart

drifting satellites

each shaking away

violently,

with lovers on our backs,

and fake lovers grasping

at flailing legs

growing more distant.

 

A humble comet,

burning up slowly,

no longer alone.