I sensed you instantly, standing like an exclamation point outside your office door. Me, dressed in the finest intentions, glancing over, once, and then– the sky opened up.
You were heavenly, frightfully sublime, undertaking the mundane task of unpacking your belongings, working your way into your new role, my clinical savior.
I took a seat in the lecture hall, early for class. You sauntered in, primed for conquest and with a glint of nervousness.
And like a prediction gone awry, you asked me, “Is this the point of no return?”
You stood there between worlds, and I succumbed to your heatwave.
How you sparkled, evanescent against the inexorable surface of a closed door, crossing thresholds full of boundaries meant to be broken, rules suffocating the life out of everything, and you beside the chalkboard, smearing up against the line drawn up for us to fail.
My rate of velocity, the murmur, the murmur, the continuous humming of your verve that defies dark matter.
But I was right about you, and of this thing which persists.
Love is the poisoned pen that has given life to these words. And to the memories, the trifles that mark my everyday headline: Head Full of Stars Leads to Let Down.
Time heals everything, or so I’ve been told–a cliche that has never come true.
And as I sit here now, bending time to suit my desires, I arrive at the question I wished you had asked years ago: Is this the point of no return?
Love with its destructive force, breaking me into submission, impinging the deep tissue of longing, and with a head full of stars, the infinite trail of your voice sends me spinning to the point of no return.