gravest gravity

I guess it shouldn’t hurt so much
when you’re not any more close to me now:
it’s not like we’re quanta entangled with every glimpse,
not like we ever wanted the same things, or any thing—

the sun’s rising won’t spin the earth like a top tilting on its axis,
swinging the planets and stars aligned
in their revolution against the oppressive light,
that dares beam its face into each eye; burning inside—

nor do the oceans rush towards our sinking feet
while we stare over the horizon, with the winds
whispering in our ears and through our hair
why every moon comes to visit, and every star—

we are no definite descriptions,
we are no names we know;
we are whatever we say we are, not what we think;
whatever we know, not what we can remember

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