an ode to gambier hills and phantoms

 
i. first & foremost, in the forefront of our fingers
my shoes wedged between blades of grass,
there is a fault line between your pupils and firefly light;
we do not speak of the disappearance to come,
only this. a moment, where happiness landed like
lychee juice, sticky on my tongue and hands;
i can almost hold onto it all. i can almost hold on
to something alive.

ii. we could have died, and it would not have been enough
to stop us from falling, circles and circles down this
slope, head bent in a desire to chase adrenaline, and
arms outstretched reaching for the bottom of the
hill or each other. we never slowed, we could
have cracked our heads open, right there, and
we could have stilled, smiles still plastered, vivid
and now meaningless on our childish faces, and
it would not have stopped us from falling.

iii. we are names on a handful of
cards. i am wedged between a queen and a ten,
in an open hand, i am everywhere here, somewhere
midst ohio, there is something to define me by;
a gain, then a loss of life in moments, in two weeks;
we lie, and lie again, and act as if happiness is
ever in line with permanence. we lie, and lie again
that between cards and games of mau, we live
with no rules, and nothing to hold on
to each other with.

iv. longing is perched in distance and poetry
nothing between june and july is defined through
paper, it can only be relished through life. i called
poetry an act of terrorism because it will tear down
everything we lived and strip it into words and not.
this. something. we were something. we are not yet
nothing, but we are distance, and we are speckled
fireflies are no longer reigning, and we are no longer
hands holding hands, fingers curled to permanence,
reaching to, coming to, leading to —

v. existence in an aftermath of something
is brutal and deadly. yesterday, i made my drink again,
poured it down a drain, and picked up a call. we cannot
escape the memories of something good. i will spend
years recalibrating, and it will be ok, because i
have it all in the back of my mind, in that poker set,
your hands dealt my wins; my rings, traded into new
states, continents; a notebook full of shit i can’t decipher,
all about you, you, you, everything —

vi. in this life, we are brief, and always infinite.

*

(Featured image from Pexels)