Science is boring but there’s a thing to the sky, the wind, the mountain time,
the height and the light and the way these clouds just glow under the cuff, pillows
cirrus and stratus knowing no form, aside from maybe those taffy puffs that stretch across the sky (like heartstrings, stinging like they’re plucked when you come back to mind).
Due west, (how’s your hair, and how’s the dog?), there’s this
to a wonder-less basin, most days,
box winds closer to the ground throw themselves East as the ones above (I suppose I’m fine), Westward.
West of honest smiles (and roadrunners), Natives pumping gas too slow and seasons called ‘monsoon.’
There’s the violins of the pines right now, their needles quivering in some sedated symphony (they’ve been doing it for years), with the blows we never see but always strike familiar (desert dust like jasmine white, you never thought it special).
All of it heading for you as the magmatic moon grows smaller the more we turn away and move in revolutions (the ache sizzles just the same, always less the more I stay away from you), and,
The thoughts of you, the longing, and the dreams of showing you what’s up Central, the bliss and kitsch, the Runaway’s hideaway, the Sun burning over some shared horizon (you’ve seen everything I’m talking about with those private IG accounts you use to stalk me), and the heat,
as it mirrors off the bottoms of whatever label we’ve decided to give these,
Carbonations, of everything that remains constant and yet so ever lovingly promises,
Or the promise of demise? The end of things but the continuation afterward, that old, fabled telling of time, forever fading, although moving, dissipated, like sugar in Colorado blue, these thoughts of you, again, sorry (don’t hate me) –
They’ve grown so weak. The longing once and for all replaced with grief,
and some day soon, some time after tonight, like the light and the wind and the clouds of no form, I suspect,
And I hypothesise (I don’t mean to sound excited),
The grief will turn towards the unknown, born again, like continuation, for some other winds, for some other boy, for some type of adoration.
The sky for now, due without the labels (but I think you’re finally out of here).