Astranomical

Every dreaming night, in a hospital bed, I say would-be last words. "Santa Fe" slips out of my dying, dry mouth. It's never morning.

i'll whisper words to you that'll melt in your hand and maybe i would melt in yours as we watch the sun spin in circles around ourselves. i would frolic in the snow with you, turn into an ocean of you and maybe then the seas would rise for us, perhaps the sun would shine for us, i bet the world would die for us. i'll exist like a river and pull everything in. if we went under together it'd be winter forever, so i hope you love the smell of the snow.

"are you a life affirming person, astra?" i said that i was, or that i hoped i was, and we laughed and walked on. walked on into the abnormally rainy spring weather, the dark clouds, and second thoughts. walked on, into the phone calls with my mother screaming over the phone that she's disowning me, on into the phone calls with my father telling me his only wish in life is that he had never met my mother. greatest wish? what about better weather, future prosperity, a resurgence of love in any one of our lives? what about your mother, who died too long ago for you to remember? what about happiness, what about your broken pocket watch you we

 the truest thing i've come up with lately is that everything in the world is just a calculated lie. like the flatness of the earth that comes from paving roads, building houses on the tops of mountains. but the roads are cracked, and the houses have a view. i wonder why they do silly things like make windows or fund things other than infrastructure, why they let my car rattle and shake, why my car radio makes the whole world a two-second silent reminder that the world hates being flat. or maybe it isn't flat because someone out there, or maybe it's ourselves, wants to keep from telling a too-perfect lie. one of the greatest questions i've

i've seen no stranger thing than the girl by the sea, the girl made up of wilted flowers licking up the murky water from a cliff's bare back on a rainy day in december. her tongue was sliced on the old souls of jagged rocks, stale blood running through the dirty water. blue hummingbird in a glass jar to protect it from the stormy weather of which it was unafraid, resting at the tips of the slender golden tips of her fingers.