and it was a bad idea,
i know that now.
my lungs seem too small for my chest,
but all i can feel is the soft fabric
of my sheets brushing over my calves
as i shift in bed late at night
we were self-destructive,
imploding and exploding,
like tiny galaxies too bright for the sky
and darling, we were never meant
for the morning,
instead we were continually
lining ourselves up to the stars,
bony wrists against white-fire
i know, i know,
i always had too many
space metaphors for you to handle
but i just wish you'd known
that sometimes we would have worked
if something had shifted,
slid into place.
but i guess you just
couldn't love me enough for that.