vanishing point

it’s because when I was small

I used to pretend that I could

pluck the sun from the sky

and hold it inside my first 

it would be warm and juicy

between my fingers

it would secrete lemon-yellow syrups

like a tiny hydrogen gumdrop

when I held the sun up to my ear

it would pulsate and roar with unending energy

making promises it could never keep

*

it’s because I used to hear whispers 

in the empty hall 

and catch shadows glancing off the draperies

lips unseen 

rending the air at the nape of my neck

but if I were to scan the darkness

if I were to reach out 

with all my senses

might someone

or something 

reach back?

*

it’s because when I stared into

vintage photographs

or historical paintings

some part of me mourned 

for the lost hours

for the youth that had so momentarily shined

and the bright futures that were already extinct  

betwixt oil and canvas and Kodak contact paper

time is petrified

and a century is equal to an instant

 *

it’s because I realised that no matter how broken 

one may be

life can break you a little bit more

when the sky has coagulated

and the hours become a wreckage

the only person 

you may expect to meet 

upon the white-hot pitch of despair 

is yourself

* 

and it’s because I try to recall the oblivion 

from before I was born

I try to recall a warm darkness

a perfect sleep

absolving me and all that I ever am

I try to recall not being able to recall

anything 

or anyone

to whirl within a proton

and cast across two-hundred billion galaxies…