My eyelids are waxing and waning with my face blunt staring at the moon,

Starlight flickers with every blink and I know what happens next, things tend to blur when it's past 12.

It’s so full, 

The transcendent sky is so full,

The brim closes in but the stars have nowhere to go,

So when it overflows, I only see Van Gogh stars, not my stars.

Fingering those lingering rivers when they trace my cheek and the peach fuzz on my face shivers as the worms in the grass do. 

City lights trace the rivers and you can see the colors on my face,

Maybe it's only shades of blue, but I can still call it an array of colors.

I think.

I’m thinking so.

My stars don’t make very good judges, they only burn for perfection in a mortal’s camera roll.

So, I can proudly say, “I’m the best qualifier!”                             (She’s the only qualifier, but don’t tell her that)

I can say that a pallet of blue is a rainbow.

I can tell you that frogs can fly when the sky turns red.

I can tell you that her tongue lashes, and it hurts. 

It doesn’t mean I can quantify any means, I think.

I think.

I’m thinking,

I’m thinking of her astronomy.

The focal points on her face and how I would paint her eyes on blunt (words that scream under cold) canvases.

She doesn’t want me and she’s not right for me.

Compilations of her cruelty falter on salt pillars and I’m dying of thirst.

Somehow,

She snuffs out ridicule in my tapestries, but they’re not tapestries, they’re words.

I think, I think.

She hunts down contact lenses for the cold gloss in her eyes, but it's not glossing over, it fractures Whitefish lake and the ice shatters.

I think, I think, I think I dropped something in bitter waters,

What was it?

Maybe if I walk back that way I’ll remember, deja vu, deja vu, deja vu, I’ll remember when I reach the spot.

But now that I know, I can’t take it back, I don’t want it, I don’t want it!

I’ll run away, but the faster I run, the more the ice burns on my leg.

Someone protect her from my warmth, she’ll blister in the desert and her image won’t die.

Can someone bring me the shackles I dropped in the lake?

I thought I didn’t need them anymore. 

Please bind my hands to the icy waters and watch her melt,

She’ll never come up for air and she’ll never need to.                (She’s depleted my lungs of her knowledge on what to do best)

She’ll never breathe when I’m gasping for air, for faltering on false pretenses has always been my haven.

I think, I think, I don’t know why I think like this.

And I swear father, I don’t want her, I don’t want her.

She isn’t right for me, I know what qualifies for good and evil.

I know my binaries like I know my stars.

If I’m bitter and truthfully speaking, I know she won’t appreciate my philosophies and I know she will only shred my gills.

Trust me father, I know.

It’s time for me to go, but it seems the will of the universe,

Perhaps the magnetizing of the poles on Earth? Is that how I always end up near her?

The rotational angle of 23.5 degrees from the vertical? Is that why my stars tilt with her in those snowglobes of inky eyes? 

There must be some reasonable explanation for this, there always is.

I think, I think, I think it must be the medication that makes my heart flutter when I see her.

I think, I think, I think I must need new glasses, I mustn’t be seeing her right.

I think, I think, I think my head must die, for it isn’t my heart that beats so fast when I can detect her old spice whispers in the air. Right?

Please father, I’ve known everything until I met her.

Everything could be analyzed with my careful, practical eye until she laced her fingers with something lustrous.

Now I’ve devoured copious painkillers, I’ve devolved, I’ve dissolved, to nothing but a newborn baby raised in ashes.

I don’t know anything, I can’t say anything, I can’t show anything.

I’ve never known such a pit of envious lust, she knows everything, she says everything, and she catches my transparent eyeballs in iridescent shadows. 

I see nothing of her traits in a conduct of solitude.

Rolling tongues in the hills hasten the gossip in the wind, and how I wished I could speak their language!

Then maybe, they can whistle to the reeds, who’ll whisper amongst themselves and speak to me in morse code with the leaf imprints on my feet.

And maybe they’ll tell me what she screams into the wind,

Maybe they’ll tell me what flight risks she would take,

Maybe they’ll tell me if her head screams for me, and my longing is a mutual ballad.