and to the sky i will return

take me in your arms and guide me back

It’s something beautiful, is it not? The sky, a perfect and unpolluted mass as we crest like the birth of a rocket ship over the glitteringly colloidal horizon of suburbia. The moon turns over in her bed, tossing her head so only a waxing crescent of her pale mane is visible to us short-lived deities, immortal til the end. And we, the perfect creatures of this purlieu, reign over our kingdom supreme with eyes half open and mouths of a narrow, stretching cut. How wild it is, how uncanny and peculiar we are, to see the world at such a restful time as this. I am the dawn come too soon, the dead peeking through the cracks of after so as to view my beloved world a second and final time. Rapid eye movement dumbs the mind, slows the soul to a steady crawl. Enough!

I slide my bare foot to the accelerator, blood pumping with gasoline and whatever discarded substance is knocking patiently at the door of my consciousness, picking the lock slowly, swinging me open to infinity; the chasm, salted with suns and spun with nebulae, reaches up past consciousness to that which is invisible.

And you, sitting beside me, eyes like celestial bodies, their flaming cores the endless black pit of your pupils. Your boundless heart shines through your stretched breastskin—you are as quick as a star and twice as luminous. And you are young again, the days before before, and I smile—the black and white prints did you little justice, my lady of the night sky, my Hermes, my radiance. Such a word, such a woman.

We have little need for cars or trains, for the great starry planes of the sky unravel themselves at our gentle touch and we are borne aloft as I clutch your hand, my mind searing and soaring. I know what it means to be weightless, no matter no thought, a beautiful hyperbole, a conflagration made of sound and fury that signifies next to nothing; I am the breath before the last. And as you take my tender hands from the wheel, wet and stained like the day I was born, and you cradle me in your arms and guide me to the sky that awaits my return, that orchestral consciousness of mine swells and fades for a final time into this unspeakable tapestry of darkness and ever.

Life has never been as beautiful as death.

author’s note:

i hope this is what dying is like.

this all began as a journal entry! how beautiful.

ten points to he who spots the hamlet reference.