NaPoWriMo #2: Spacecraft

When I offer you a light today
you don’t even look at me, staring
at the concrete steps near a door
that leads into the pressroom,
your name stinging the air, stapling
their lips together. It’s a seismic
shift of your losing your love,
the editor who now destroys
both your heart and your stories.
I’d like to give you some advice,
but I always drift away from
personal issues, crawling
in a Viking boat to hope they
won’t spot me from the shore,
wade in after me, burn me up.
We could have been lovers, too,
if I was the sort of man
who ripped wings off butterflies,
or whipped a group of reporters
with the backslash of his voice,
and you were type of woman
who boarded a spacecraft
with no knowledge of why
you decided to soar, but felt
it was worth it for those stars
that came closer every day.
When you finish smoking
in silence, I want to give a hug,
but I push by you instead,
to clack on my keyboard, to make
that bird fly with my words.
If only I could’ve written you
a ghost letter that would haunt
you at night, so you’d be forced
to open it, to read how I feel
in the blue ectoplasmic light
of my affection, making you wish
you could become a phantom,
join me in the world of the dead,
chew the pomegranate, discard
spring, let me be your only touch.