Falling backward through time
on a warm January night
with nothing to do
but to look up at the stars
and feel yourself stretched into
twenty five billion different directions
until the past and the future come apart
and all that is left is quietness
knowing that your question
only has an answer you cannot understand.
Gravity is resentment–
wishing you could pluck a star out of the sky
and squash its weak flickering
between your finger and your thumb
and shape all its metaphors for longing
on your distant presence.
If only you could bring its attention
to the great big love tearing you up on the inside
about how you think being in love
is a little like believing in god–
you yearn to open your throat
and speak aloud all those unsaid hymns
on truth and beauty and coincidences
but you are shushed into silence
by the magnificence of the night sky.
Gravity is that sharp intake of breath
when a stranger’s hand
lights a match in the pit of your stomach
with a single touch–
and you burn
every time you lay awake under an indifferent sky.
You cut free the safety wires
into yet another mistake.
Gravity is the complete surety
that no matter how hard you try
to fling yourself forward,
you will always have to return
to where you came from.
It is every dream that races before you–
It is every burning beacon summoning you home–
It is what tethers you to low parapet walls
as you look back over your shoulder
to those you love.