My love, tidal forces have ripped through me masked as your words
Your gravity so immense I am collapsing –
Spaghettified by your verse

What do you do with the light you recite?
Give it all to her
I am stretched into singularity trying to reach what I deserve

My love, mountains crumble the way you and I fall
We’re tumbling all over Earth
My feet stumble for the words you birth

How do you make time stand still?
Twisting and pulling
Do I exist so you can feel?

My love, you pull every fiber of my being
I come undone
Sinful and holy thing, all-consuming

Engulf me whole…

© Delia Ross. 2020

My hair is getting so long (on one side) it just curls around me and every inch of this silky fabric is organic, real, homegrown from my skull, and mine (though it tangles just from thinking about blowing on it, brush it from down up please and in sections or it tangles while brushing and never brush it wet, ever or you’ll ruin my fine silks *sigh*. I just know someone’s going to fuck my hair up when I die. DON’T FUCKING TOUCH IT AND DON’T FUCKING LET THE GOVERNMENT CREMATE MY BODY FOR FREE AND GIVE ME A WHITE TOMB AND BURY ME WITH OTHER UNKNOWN SOLDIERS. Instead, freeze me and give my body to science and they can clone me and bring me back to life digitally or like for real in the future. I’m down with that but don’t stick me in a fucking box either 6 feet under. If you do though, let my hair keep growing, don’t touch it, that’s my point. La la la

I don’t know how many poems I’ve written, because life is chaos and order, but 99.9979% have been for you. But what came first, the black hole or the star? Could the star be where it’s at today without the black hole? What if all these chemicals and elements exist because ionization occured from the black hole? What if I’m the black hole instead and you are the star? What if none of these poems were ever written? What if I never feel your actual kiss? Might die… might survive… might go supernova in your sky.

So, I hate you and I love you. “My indecision is final”.

I see what they write about you. But it doesn’t fucking compare, to the magnitude of the words we write each other (I mean the words you don’t write me at all but do but don’t but do but don’t but do). Ahem. *gets back in coffin* I’m over everything and I want to hibernate through winter…

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6 thoughts on “Singularity

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