when the fire breaks the skyline, we’ll begin again, rising from our ashen ruins like a phoenix.
we’re made of star stuff. we’re composed of the bits and pieces of all the lightning bugs that watch over us in our glass jar.
when the fire breaks the skyline, i’ll hope they remembered to leave air holes, because we’re all going down, baby, and there’s no stopping us now.
this is our litmus test, our infinite hypothetic, but we’ll never make it completely around the swing set because gravity keeps us down. and fuck physics, i believe we can do anything, but there are rules to breaking things up.
there are rules to these things that can’t be broken because everything’s categorizable, succinctly purposed in its raison de vivre.
our star stuff is connected, a galactic pas de deux, and i can’t look you in the eyes as we dance through the smoke and flames when our walls come crashing down, because it’s too much. there are feelings and they crawl up my veins like the itch that drops blood on my pillowcase, hiding the gravity around my wrist.
we twist and turn, our damned grace entwining in our wake. there’s no air; we’re too far gone. the atmosphere’s burning up, but i still can’t look you in the eyes.
i’d drink you in too deeply, and i’m trying not to think about death so much any more, but when times get hard, we deflect to what we know. and what i know is i don’t touch, and what i don’t touch won’t crack, and tht which doesn’t crack is still gold.
after the fire’s broken, and our love’s faded through the oxygen we need, something new will beat its wings.