I write about the sky so much
Simply because I think it's magnificent.

There's no other reason for my obsession with the sun
Or the moon
Or the stars and celestial;
I'm not an astrologist 
And I don't want to ever be one,
And I'm not an astronaut
And it's far too late to wish to become one.

I often wish for wings.
Sometimes I wish for wings as a cosmetic
For desire of beauty in life--
But more often than not
I wish to fly
High enough to freeze,
High enough to stutter in breath,
High enough to plummet and wisp into trails of smoke along the sky.

At least if I'm a comet
I'll be memorable, effortlessly;
At least they will treasure pieces of me when I shatter
And at least if I'm a comet,
I don't have to keep driving forward anymore.

I can take comfort in the fact that I am plummeting.
I can see the ground
(A jarring difference to the sky)
Before I flare and die;
And I will see their faces

Awe. Fear.
One in the same.

And I will burst.