They've given us each our own crescent moon, in a square-plot of space time starred over as far as the eye can see. From it hangs a single golden swing, just two chains and a thin rod hanging into nothingness. Here, we sit, every sun and moon only a pendulum length. The universe as our playground.
In these four years, I'll daisy-chain galaxies together, looping constellations with every oscillation. I'll trapeze to other moons, hang from the hands of my friends and let them send us sailing into the unknown, ride through waves of cosmos on our combined strength.
But today I sit on the swing, move my hands down from the chains to the rod beneath me. Then in one fluid motion, I'll tip back, hanging from my knees with my hair melting into the black below. Let the blood rush to my head, let my eyes crack open.
And I'll take in the view.
YOU ARE READING
ad astra per aspera
Poetrymelting planets drip onto my tongue, dying it bronze and blue. for weeks, my words come out poetry-flavored. so I lick the page and see which way the ink bleeds, into the paper or into my mind.
