The Planet Venus

Emily Sipiora

For the first time in the
passing of pithy, faint year
the chest is fluttering– for
something once dead, it was
previously rotten, fear at the
presence of a certain feeling
forgotten. 

This time of the year, the world
bleeds gray, vanishing in darkish
mist as if the world wants to reassure
us that it will end up swallowing us, too. 

I’ve read that in outer space, it
takes years to breach such a great
distance. When perceived, the light
years are terribly distant, you will
wake up in the gray morning sober
and lonely. 

Bare threads of a dream where my
waist was placed between your index
and your thumb, drowning in that ocean, 
lukewarm, drowsy, and numb.