How am I supposed to convince myself that we are destined to be strangers while I see galaxies dripping from the marrow in your ribs?
You are overripe with existence
Your thumbs tearing dimensions through my chest
Painting each laceration with constellations
While they twiddle in celestial bouts of divinity from under your desk
Seeping into my cartilage and pushing my joints aside
You grind my bones to paste
As I limp through the bottomless caverns of your eye sockets
I can’t hear you dear
Every particle in your stardust body is gathered in your craned neck
A nebula ripping through your tonsils
Voice creaking through the floorboards of my spine as you tiptoe across my vertebrae like a staircase to the heavens
And as you look skyward
I see the desperation in your eyes
How small you feel compared to the universe
I can tell because I am stargazing at you
With those same yearning eyes
Only I cannot seem fathom
How small the universe feels compared to you
The Quill 