the habit of being

To be alive and trembling under the gravity of all times near and far is to be spinning in so many directions at once it seems that we are sitting quite still. I can see my heartbeat looking at my skin and it is so thin to hold in frantic force beating down the invisible walls crashing through door by door, yet I do not feel that I am spinning, but I am. The universe is a circus and I’m not even dizzy, just tired, physically relieved tonight, satisfied for the second. I’d state a formula but that may be to blunt, and I am slight of hand, slight of hint.

A hand? Give me yours. I miss a hand to claim, my own are not enough and I’d so like to be rid of them. But yes, give me yours and I will treasure it, press it to my cheek, kiss your fingertips one by one for hours, hours, and never ever let go. I won’t fall down from the endless twirl if you steady me one of these long centuries, while I explode and die out and invert all the darkness to weight. I was not meant for lightness, I give my light to you.

These is no day on the sun, I say, though others may disagree.

My eyes hurt.