i spit out the moon at the same rate the stars die.
the noise of my teeth hitting eachother only reminds me of how ephemeral and small i am even though i could fit a thousand suns in my mouth and even greater number of moons in my head.
the stars in my eyes wont be as lonely, then.
the moon wont show herself most nights even if the night is clear as the day and i understand why,
why would she want to see such miseries.
yet i still yearn,
yet i still wait for her to show up as i breathe in the butterflies and the crushed optic nerves, as i blink into a blue nothingness, as i wait for
The End Of The World
i still think of everyday of our dead cicadas and of the possibility of flying away,
our bodies little crushed stars and our hair strands of hopelessness.
our eyelashes bits and pieces of past supernovas, my moles the mark of the cold existential otherwordly wind.
the petrichor awaits us the same as i wait for my heart to spark everyday and i breathe in and its just
us and them,
and the whales.
i often think of the moon and it's hidden side
what does it mean and what does it represent
this is a one sided relationship isn't it?
YOU ARE READING
a ladybug's experience in space (sleepy poems)
Poetryrandom poems i don't edit or read over written in a frenzy at night while the moon and the stars are watching over me and my eyelids roll over
