Nerves so thin
I have them rewired every few years
and his fondness of her memory
is a wrench to my chest.
I have been all angles
in a universe of spheres.
I've known no other sun.
I've burned up in his double replacement
exchange reaction,
counted each molecule
clinging to its atoms--
There must be some other sky
where clouds don't mimic his smirk
where her star has burned out
and is fillable space
free of his dark condemnation
of nothingness--
Oh I'd like to fill that sky,
my eyes bright in his mornings,
a moon face for his dove-like nights,
a whisper of sleep on the breeze,
and no one there's ever heard her name.
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