At times I drag my heavy limbs from self-imposed confinement. This is when the malaise branding itself into me is too much, this is when the thought of some relief from it pangs around my skull incessantly, and here is the only thing I can do; 

to go to an empty meadow (you know the one,) with my disarrayed head pressed to dirt, and try to seek comfort in a vast abyss, the scattered chaos of a cosmic concoction. 

How much comfort do you derive from an infinity?

You told me, with the God-like composure, too many liquory drinks could beat into you, from down here on solid ground, you felt as if you were looking down at the universe. That reality was beneath you.

I used to become absorbed by the dark velvet ahead of me, that’s what I told you. If I stared too long, swaying trees would still. The heady meadow would become a peripheral and all I could comprehend was the twinkling of the planets you had named after us. Invincible. Too far away from the wreck back home; maybe we were the aliens, abandoned down here, and our true place was set in the sky, eternally entangled, with all to see. 

It is hard to get over you, when you; 

uncalculated, and disordered. Impossible to calculate what your next move is, where your intentions lie, the hoax that is you. Destroying itself with the fixation to burn bright, boundless, questionable, but no denying its existence—

lies atop me. A smothering blanket with universal weight. I kick and tear at the edges before they’re lost again. 

Each constellation appearing like the alignment of freckles I would trace with a bare finger, auroras like the ones which I swear used to appear on the horizon of your irises, when turned to me. 

Your favorite star was the brightest one, you could point to it on impulse. That could be why you haven’t found me again; the seasons will change, and it’s too strenuous to map me out, now.