I keep looking up for your face in the stars but constellations have only ever looked like spoons to me. For now i am an earth thing. That likes to feel your legs. Maybe, that book on your chest of drawers. Is a welcome mat for our clumsy future together.

I keep looking up for your face in the stars but constellations have only ever looked like spoons to me. We were here, together, yesterday. There is a memory of when you smiled. And that memory happens only in me. And feels like a burp. No wait, a creek. In a forest of farts. Hold on, of a dream thing. And i am cool air on a calm lagoon of thoughts of you. And am somehow also a furnace,. Immobile and on fire about you,. A star bubble, asking the thought in itself.

I keep looking up for your face in the stars but constellations have only ever looked like spoons to me. Of an otherwise sweet, incorruptible form. And when your arms extended. That morning the last time i saw you. We looked at each other, and laughed. That nothing separates from itself. But will somehow be valued more. A cow or something maybe.

I keep looking up for your face in the stars but constellations have only ever looked like spoons to me. I am an insurmountable task. Assigned by a suburban landscaper. To build a machine unwilling to self-assess. Any aspect of what it was built to do. So it tramples the desires of unknowable people. Jokingly and with, um, reckless abandon, i guess. You are the opposite of this. You squeeze the light from wild,.

I keep looking up for your face in the stars but constellations have only ever looked like spoons to me. Waves bleed against enlarged bodies. Of these semi-fluid patterns of us. And we are wrapped around each other. Hoping to one day understand ourselves. That staring at each other for hours is a waste of anything.