amber is pog

were you really there?

i touched her close

brought her in against the will of my fingertips, cradled in the curvature of her back,

seeped into valleys, twisting themselves into the ridges of her spine.

i'm trickling down her,

bound to her frame,

trapped in her form.

in the beginning is the end.

look towards the skyline, trapped in discord, billows of pinks and crimson overlapping floods of ink and speckled stars.

but i am held in the silence, prisoner to the space between the ground and the sky,

slipping my fingers from the gritted hold of the soil,

and it feels like I’m flying.

my bones untangle, and crash, click, fold and unfold themselves with yours,

the puzzle that entraps, the fevers in my dreams, the gold through the tulip tips,

it’s all the same to me.

it feels all alike; a plateau at climax, the sun that never sets

and i wonder—at what point did it all stop?

at what point did the earth complete its rotation for the final time,

did the wave crumble in the sand

did the moon grace its light atop the weeping trees,

for the world to end, and leave itself nothing but a piece of you, left in the stars

folded in the clouds;

at what point did i wish for an ending?

i’m curling to your will, wilting in your touch, collapsed and turned inside-out so that my organs face the sky,

when did it all become so incredibly loud?

if it were possible to pin-point the destination on the map, trace out the journey, burn scars along each road and mark out each stop,

would i find where it ends,

— or begins?

because in the beginning is the end,

where the skyline stretches thin and the ground blossoms from the earths beating heart,

where the waves warp themselves to the curves of the cliffs,

where my lips meet yours

—and it all ends.

were you really there,

or had it just begun?