See me perform this here
The boy I like
told me that everything in the universe
is made of stars.
He described them eating themselves,
the iron corrupting the heart,
the spat out destitution of a would-be sun;
I could relate.
I went home and wrote
‘You are the ephemeral glitter in the eye of a manic universe –
and I am the debris clogging the arteries of stars as they
That’s the difference between us.
In the world of evenings as poetry –
he is the star studded sky.
His heart is the rocking moon that generously shares its sun with us.
He is the moment when you realise that you live
in the space between brilliance and beauty,
and you still matter.
As for me,
in that same evening,
I am a lake.
I reflect a reflection.
I refract a resurrection of a sun
I can only see the sun through smoke
and my heart is so drowned in anxiety
that no warmth will ever go right through me.
So I look at the boy through my bloodshot I’s,
E’s, O’s, you –
you don’t even flinch.
You look right back and I don’t even see revulsion in your thoughts
because your mind is a network
of constellations spelling out philosophy against the backdrop
Your mind is so busy creating wonder that some of it projects onto me
and for a blinding moment
the lake alights
with the face of the moon.
But moments pass.
Our moments past
and no amount of starlight can penetrate the fog
that lies heavy on my shoulders, so I stew in it.
The fog presses down on me
and the repressed air that I have to breathe
tastes like nostalgia and necromancy and the desperation to revive the dead,
to reawaken those dead stars and their occupants,
to relive old evenings,
to live –
If I hold my breath
you can’t take it from me, I tell myself.
I ground myself
and grip the shores until the banks
I sink my teeth into sand
and try to stay down – and he whispers that he hates how he looks and I break,
From the pit in my belly I sob freshwater into fields,
because I can see what he can’t.
I can see sincerity,
passion, intelligence, wit,
I can see depth of feeling that only a lake could have.
I can see hope -
but he pulls away.
He tugs tidal and the moon is victorious once more,
while I can’t rest,
I reflect a refraction
of the beauty of his perseverance through a hundred winter storms
and I pray to the sun that he never realises that the only beauty I have to offer him is what he lends me,
and that when evening passes to night
and the moon chases after the sun,
I am still stuck here.
I am still stuck here,
The boy I like told me
that everything in the universe is made of stars –
and I almost believe in the metaphor of it all.
In the bohemian love of literature and cold November air and waiting long enough for unrequited love to resolve itself.
I almost believe.
If a lake could burn as a star,
if a lake could shine like the sun,
if a lake could spread out its feelings across the sky and be open and vulnerable and tempestuous –
if. If, if, if.
I am only lowly lakewater
and the sun does not belong to me.
But when you cry, my evening sky,
when you weep,
and the stars can’t be seen for the misery in your heart –
When the whole world fears your thunderous agony being reigned down upon them
will catch the pieces of you that fall
For I have seen the darkest parts of the evening
and love it still
with a torrential love that is made
of a stars dreams dying
into the dwarfed hopes
of a would-be sun.