Slingshot.

You were the moon.

No, not like that.

This isn’t a poem about the soft guiding light

of a waxing gibbous, reminding me of the silver hair

trailing down Artemis’ back.

 

No.

You were the moon to me.

NASA’s rockets use the gravity of the moon like a slingshot

so they can head to Mars with the right trajectory and speed.

 

You were science to me. You had gravity I could use

to get much, much further away from you than I ever was before.

My little rocket ship wasn’t aimed at the light that you gave off –

cheap imitation and faded effort of a star.

 

No.

I was always headed to a frontier you couldn’t dream of

because honey, you were just a rock.

The Sack.

I carry it with me,

a sack full of stones.

 

Sometimes it’s on my back, or I drag it behind me, or kick it in front of me

on days I am especially tired.

 

But it is there, beside my bed each morning.

Once I shake off the stupor of my sleep,

I look over at the sack and feel

the memory of the weight

climb onto my chest before I even

pick it up.

Nostalgia.

At night

when I walk home drunk

I whisper to you.

 

Its been five years

but I like to talk to you, still.

 

After the alcohol makes me bold

and as reckless as I used to be,

I stare at Orion’s belt, thinking

of the time I believed

I’d only have 3 loves my whole life,

and that you were

my brightest,

my most sure.

 

I whisper to you how much I still

love you, how much I loved you then.

 

The strings of syllables

tumbling indelicately

out of my mouth

without cadence

to lend itself

to immortality –

 

no one else will hear those endearments.

You never did either.

 

Below 40 degrees

when air fills my lungs,

the smell and slight burning

reminds me of the nights we had potential,

when I could wander to your room at 3 am

drunk

and even though I never told you

how I felt

at least I could talk to you.

 

At least my lungs back then

felt that burn as living

and not

nostalgia.