┌┐
taking inventory
By T
April 19, 2026
i don't think i meant to go this far. i just remember
boarding a ship with pockets full of
humanity. old names and 3 jumbled passwords that i
can't seem to remember anymore.
the first to leave was my money. Obviously.
it tried to crawl back to my shoe, thin and
shivering and green. and begs:
"you need me. you want me. you'll only panic without me."
you don't see stars needing to rent space for themselves; get out.
i fling it into orbit. it tries to open a credit card immediately. fails.
i lose my name by the time i reach neptune. easy work.
i never liked the sound of it anyway. two, three, too many syllables to
remember. i hand it to a comet that nodded very seriously
and said he will never use it. i tell him
take this far away.
i hope it is never spoken again.
gravity was harder.
it tries to wrap around my ankles like a horrible lover.
promises it'll be gentler this time. it won't hold me
down so much.
i unbutton my body and let the two of them float away politely.
my bones tried to write me an email once they realized
they were in the vacuum.
subject line: ACTION REQUIRED - ARE YOU SURE?
i marked them as spam.
i drift on.
by the time i reach andromeda
i've found a constellation with my handwriting,
and a nebula with a new yorker's accent.
in pieces, i am everywhere. careless and luminous,
unemployed by eternity.
i try to remember fear but it seems to
slide right through me.
there's only one thing left.
home.
i put it down gently,
in the middle of forever.
i walk away lighter
