The unbearable aching gravity

All that pretty hair drifting through your fingers on the way to the ground. So light the sun blows right through, like caring was a dream. That heavy hand of hope pressing out color from adolescent afternoons, our hands slow, careless, quivering novices. All those noes before inhaling, stilling regret, then speaking. One more morning dive beneath covers before sailing down a river, smelling pomegranates, and knowing your stomach turns at their longing. The almost of an early Spring, one breath away from frost, the upheld pause, suspension that expects the fall. Inevitable, endless, earth; we no longer recall how to regain the moon.