i admit i've thought of diving in, surrendering
to its echoed gaze, or its low-droned hum, or maybe
the comfort of weightlessness. there's something
seductive about the jump, both submitting to the drop
and robbing god of his reign. being wet isn't even
the goal and i don't know what is. it might be that
it's the closest i'll get to an aimless drift in
the empty of space but i haven't confirmed that yet.
it could be a lust for the smeared electric vision
flip-side if my eyelids obey. it's probably because
i fucking deserve it. the bitter spill tracing the
length of my spine like your elevator in free fall.
keratin softened, fingers wrinkled, hair damp. all
the side effects one might view as part of natural
order. like the nicotine-free soot of does piled
four high lining our throats. or their fawn caught
innocent in our hair-trigger multi-spectral vision.
or the rigid bolt overnighted to our next meal's
frontal lobe. gaia's divine plan for everything
but us and i'm throwing myself to starving wolves.