Pilot Lights

The sky seems so unambitious from these heights. The little soldiers in her words. Measuring their wounds in pieces of missing skin. Nightgowns thick with needy thighs. Gagging on the clouds. The sky is too low. The ground is too distant.

We had so many lies to tell. And not enough time to do so. Her empty underwear on the tips of his fingers. As he tried to smell her again. Sharp seashells between her toes. As she played back and forth games with the ocean.

The dusty curtain on the window. Chasing the glass. In obvious autonomies. The rain. The perfect sweat of dead ends. And missing things.

Thee math. Just a tired cliche. The machine idling. Still waiting. On our ability to change.

The last time the sky was this close I wrote him a letter. I built him a contraption. Some might call a time machine.

I wore holes in all my panties looking for the heavens. I tried on the devil's knickers. But what good is a savior when hell is this tempting.