Nebula
shaking rhythm
like stylus pen on punctured paper,
I move to move my Self
in silent form across the slippery
sanctuary of being.
being is the only thing that hurts
when time turns to dust and rusts
in space between mattress and floor
yet- what is space anyway?
but a hundred billion atoms in between
you and I-
when once it felt like none
when once it felt as if only separation
was our skin bagged bodies between our souls
and eternity softly kissing the crevice of a second.
but now… just shaking rhythm-
shaking, silent, spaciousness from
one withering star to another-
ebbing light licking itself from the atmosphere
with nothing to keep it warm
but the nebula to our next life.
Copyright © Amber Lane | Year Posted 2016
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