Opposite of Infinite

- 14 -

14 - Orbit

i've always been a dreamer,

then more than now,

my head the sort of unkempt mind

that resembled a garden untamed.

instead of planets remaining in orbit,

they spun off in every direction possible;

the stars forming constellations

before they had even assembled in pattern.

I was living while asleep,

the sort of slow, even breaths

that were far too steady to be awake.

to be classed as reality.

a sort of curtain weaved together from gauze

shielding me from anything but myself,

keeping the universe inside

because I didn't think it would make sense

to anyone who saw it,

only letting the entirety of space and time out

in little dribbles

of paint on canvas.

but you woke me up

and now the oil is everywhere.

oil is far more permanent than acrylic

and far more substantial than watercolour.

far less easy to erase.

to work in oil is to be completely sure of the strokes you make.

to be confident.

before you, I never worked much with oil.

now I do it all the time.

I used to paint you a lot in oil, I think.

I remember one time

that I was painting

and you were showing me a photograph

that you had taken of us both.

wet with ink.

and I had accidentally let the water from my brush

splash

and go flying,

watching in horror

as the droplets caused our faces to become nothing

but blurred colour.

something akin to the sort of feeling I get

whenever our song plays on the radio.

the sort of emotion that lives inside my lungs

and stabs,

like all of the breath within me has left,

leaving the rest of me abandoned.

like holding your breath underwater

and hearing the soundless screams

of every muscle in your body

as they burn with the need for air.

feeling as if your insides are collapsing,

like a deflated balloon,

withering and wilting away from the bright dawn in the sky.

like an elastic heart

that has been stretched so much

that it can't return to its original placement.

you taught my solar system how to orbit

and, for that, I have to thank you.

for a large majority of my life,

you were the sun,

bright and burning

as you tugged all of my thoughts

into place

without even trying.

gently orbiting

but somehow too in line.

an organism that was far too attracting.

not only magnetising planets

but also the stars,

drawing them in

until it all collided

with such a large eruption

that my head hurt

and new planets formed.

planets that had adapted.

evolved.

and knew how to orbit themselves.

the need to focus on something

other than you.

but then I left.

the sun shattered.

you left.

and became a shooting star itself.

we both left.

and it wasn't until I heard a song

that almost sounded like ours

that I almost felt like me.

because the melody was almost the same.

it only harmonised with mine a little better

because it left room for me to sing.