The Closest Thing

to falling out a window
on a snowy evening
would be to gaze up at the sky
on a clear and cold August night
chasing the tails of Perseid’s shower
while the northern lights blaze on,
pink and green like in the pictures
of Alaska, like another stone thrown
across the yard and into the bucket list.
we just drift across and then fade out
would be too easy to say of this life,
the with you implied by ellipses
trailing off at the end of a sentence,
the unspoken absence drawn out
dissipating into complicated stars
I’m pointing out constellations
to you without your glasses,
the windows fogging up
the heavens a gaping hole
and the punctum of one
pulsing star almost
too much to bear