I tell myself three lies about the sky.
The first is that the sky is the limit.
That the world itself has a upper bound.
That there is always something there
to ground you,
to keep you
from reaching for the rising sun.
But there is nothing there.
Nothing keeps you from crossing into that void,
from losing yourself into the depths of space.
You are not grounded; you are floating free.
And the only think keeping you from kicking off into the darkness
is yourself.
The second is that of the clear blue sky,
of what is called a beautiful day.
Of the sunlight scattering off the crisp spring breeze,
heralding a bright warm day ahead.
But there is nothing beautiful about a clear blue sky.
The harsh light buring through the tears, thwarting
my attempts to retreat into darkness.
Not since you left me nothing
but the shadow trailing in your wake.
The third is that you were there with me, that night with the full moon over untroubled waters.
The third is not a lie.