the first few months are magic, are safe,
are exhilaratingly edged, are me showing you
my best held-together self. it’s not fake; i’m really
feeling it, really flying. but it’s not the whole
package. it’s as if a part of me—that
spiny slant of light—has split off and
soared—and you are the reason, and the
co-pilot, and the sunset, and the high.
the trick is in the sustain. all things must come
to a bend; all things must eventually land.
but what a fucking ride.
what a fucking sunrise.
i would not go back and change a thing.
ok, maybe a few tiny things—
but only on my end. you were every
thing i needed at that time.
and for a moment,
so was i.