I know space can be cold and dark
a vacuum scarce on particles
and when you’re in the black
it might feel like death
the misery expands from you
with nothing to hold it back
and at the same time you can’t breathe
trying to gasp but there’s nothing
only your rising, then fading, heartbeat
to make the slightest semblance of noise
in your ringing ears
that burst from the pressure changes.
But before you give in,
let me offer you this lunar landing module:
if you must die,
wouldn’t you like to walk on the Moon first?


Love Language

I hold your wrists
so you can’t slit them;
if I bathe you in pleasure,
maybe you’ll forget the
jangle-glass hounds
that dog your croons,
and if you can’t forget
maybe you’ll just swoon.
They call it love language,
how affections express,
and my love language comes
by dermal caress:
if I make you lose count
of little deaths now,
perhaps the big deaths
will be eased somehow.