did your atoms jump ship
when we held hands because
I can feel a ricochet in my heart

                         b o u n c e      a r o u n d      the      e m p t y      s p a c e

                                                     I guess it’s another seven years of echoes until
                                                                         even your atoms become bored of me

                                                    Brownian motion of kiss blowing emoji on the screen saver
                         of my dreams                 what a prelude to deer deceased on road’s shrugging
                                                    shoulders ribs rising like one laborious inhale
                                                                                            though it’s just the last eulogy of cells
                                                              pregnant with words trying to lift the body
                                                                                         toward the heavens
                                                              but it’s an arduous task turning bodies into balloons

which is why we spend years
crafting souls by squeezing spider
abdomens and suckling viper fangs

                                                                            hoping something escapes
                                                                                          like smoke absconds to god’s nostril

Jim Richardson is a gay man trying to stay sane with poetry. Lives in Florida with his doggo, Guster.