I walk love down a tightrope between moment and moon. Every artist falls off a cliff. It’s science: the moon so low and close it touches my shoulder, embraces me like a long lost penpal I never knew to know. I think we should keep all of this: the knife wounds in my whispers, a push off the ledge, my quicksand breaths, lighting a match and turning your back. Every bridge leads to a dusk. We never married or tried finishing before we started so of course I couldn’t find the longitude and latitude of your eyes. You never asked me why so I never had to ask why what. Every wire is a new horizon. Every emotion slows through winter. I forgot the feeling of falling through a trap door. Have you ever tried selling gravity to a bird?
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