Fears

I have a fear of falling through the ocean and landing in the sea,
Or of how she says airplanes make her feel romantic–shooting impossibly through
Whipped fields of luminescence. One day I’ll tell her how it is with me.

I feel as though I sneak into unlikely slipstreams
When she slides past me and furtively drops a glance on my ragged cheekbones;
I am constantly defeated by tree breath whispers that grip me,
And I like the way her silence sings with mine in subtle tones.

I am not made up of stardust, anymore.

It’s frightening how romanticism decays into pragmatism
And how natural and unhurried it makes you feel at the edge of a Tuesday evening.
I recall my wonder at the red candles lain out for catechism,
And I understand at last the way flame illumines even as it destroys everything.

I have a fear of falling through the ocean and landing in the sea,
It always starts with confusing the night sky with its face on the sliding black waters;
I have a fear of falling through myself and landing without me.

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