The weight of unsaid words.
The language that fractures
before it becomes words-
and your gentle failure to
read my compulsive intent.
The urge to drown in your
arms, followed by the fear of
being mocked for the same-
The desire to have all of you
dodged by the self-shame
that gleams in mirrors--
Some stories dissipate
like that.
When speed itself is shamed,
and any thoughts in favour
of anti-gravity are
branded as taboo-
Not everyone can garner
escape velocity to reach the
moon you've become.
and for the age in question-
I'm seventy years too late
to become an astronaut.
and maybe seventy years
too early to be compelled to
worship you from a distance.
So here are my redundant
offerings-
Prayers and wishes.
and if devotion is love enough-
I know you'll be considerate.