The infinite is a God. Something there but slipping between fingers.
Tirelessly trying to hold something bigger than the sea.
Hanging between each second or breath.
A planet falling in the corner of your eye.
Too big for lungs, too bright for eyes,
too heavy for shoulders,
so deafening it shakes the air.
Too far to touch. Too close to see, to kiss, to handle like its not something known, familiar and forgotten.
The roar as it slips away, the sun melting into the line of the land, a great blockade between the body and a dying star.
A perennial sadness; being tall enough to see and too old to understand.
Funeral flowers the marker of knowing something bigger than the length of the body, from foot to thought, finger to finger, as far as the eye can see, as far as light can travel.
You will only get so tall and when you think about this the beast grows.
Illustrator Rondie Li
Writer Grace Collins