(de/at)tachment
an astronaut drifts, tetherless,
through the void of space / consumed
by a sickening hunger for
starlight & the touch of your hands.
ground control, he says.
i don’t know how to be alone, he says,
and it sounds too much like a confession,
like the tearing-open of
a ribcage / to reveal something
horrible & monstrous & hollow inside.
and really, isn’t that what we’re all afraid of?
being unforgivable?
because here is the truth:
there is nothing good to say about him.
he claws his heart / out of his throat
just to have something warm to hold.
he watches the familiar slope
of your shoulders as you leave & thinks
penance. ruination.
that vicious, unbearable ache
sinking its knuckles
into the softness of his chest.
(i’m losing you.)
the astronaut sees the earth
within arm’s reach / but
ground control? ground control?
he doesn’t know how to come home.
because here is the real truth:
the astronaut is me
& his empty hands are mine.
all that’s left is
the ghost of every better person
he’s i’ve ever tried to be.
