What do I do my faraway star?
Do I build shrines to a love that kindled years ago
But never went ablaze?
Do I hold onto the trinkets or do I let the ink run dry on a refillable page?
Where do the fever dreams flutter to?
Do they go to someplace else or do I squeeze them until the fever breaks?
Does the garden become weeds?
Does my voice become hoarse and then silent?
Oh blemish speck, the bright light cradling the universe.
What do you do with this saturated inability to let go?
Do I endlessly float through the drudgery and awe of the cosmos?
Some inner voice says
“Let go into the wonderful unknown”
Well Honey, I just don’t know.

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