Not Lost

Genuine meteor showers happen while we sleep, behind shrouds of clouds, in the dizzying light of the sun. Thousands upon thousands of shooting stars, streaking wishlessly through the sky

while a man climbs on a bicycle,

a woman spreads her legs, opens her heart, creates the world, and a baby cries.

There’s no question, only a vague set of parentheses that may or may not hold anything worth pausing for, perhaps just hanging there loosely, passing the time with a sigh or citation. Ahhhh, page ninety-four.

But there’s always the promise of another fire, another night tangled deep in the echoes of love, drowning and worshipping with lips and tongues. Teeth here and there. Breathless, alive.

The warm shock of you finding me, insisting I’m not alone until I’m everywhere, the world not mattering, melting and flying while you keep me from disappearing, holding me more completely than the breath of spring holds a robin’s egg.