I can feel you floating up up and away
like balloons that our eight-year-old fingertips
cramped from holding on too tight,
and like a silent movie
our lips puckered into perfect O’s
never realizing how infinite these things can be.
But I don’t think it’s like that this time.
The infinite part.
I stretched my neck back
watching you become a dot against cumulus
and begged my mom for a new one.
But she told me I’d just grow restless and let go of you again.
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