I don’t want to orbit the sun anymore.
Her warmth is poison to me
you see its easier to simply
float alone, frozen than
pick away at the nitrogen ice
in hopes that one day
you’ll find the central core of life
that hasn’t been there all along.
I am rigid.
Her mere closeness
breaks me.
If I were to crash land into
her Saturday and
stay a few nights with
arms to caress and
cheeks to kiss, then
perhaps learning to swim
in my own chest
wouldn’t be so maddening
but there is no Saturday on Pluto.
There are no ponds, no lakes.
Streams or creeks, whispering sweet
lullabies to the moons.
I am forged of broken, stiff
glacial indifference.
Please, you wretched hydrogen star…
My fingers are not even flowers
yet they wish to bloom
along the fields of your
corona.
wishfinger 