—ALL I CAN SAY IS THAT MY LIFE IS PRETTY PLAIN

I get it, I do.  There is a whole history of us dissecting blank pages, parsing meaning from vacancy, pasting false poignancy into the grooves of displaced clouds.  But what if I told you I wrote my truth in the sky today, that I left it there, blood-stained and raw, next to the moon and one stray star?  Would it make a difference if I’d jumped from a perch afterward?  If I’d screamed first?  If you were my final thought as I kissed the earth goodbye, soulful with tongue, one last time?