the cloud

once i saved a picture of my hands
in the belly of the beast.
the beast laughed everytime
i cracked my knuckles.
there was a photo when 
we were not eating 
each other's hair & another
when i thought we would get married
inside a time capsule. you can
think you love someone 
for so long. then there comes
the recollecting. the night
where only centipedes flowed
from their lips. i am not praying
anymore but sometimes i talk
to the sun as if it's a god.
i say, "do you remember
the story i used to tell myself?"
the sun replies always (unlike god)
& says something like
"memory is a trick of repetition."
in each frame of the triptych
there is a new promise.
this is what i mean. my hands
on the copy machine
in my parent's house.
there are my ghost hands. there are
my finger prints living separate lives
with centaurs in their mazes.
i want to keep everything
untouchable & eternal. instead,
we make a bonfire. instead
you fill your car with salamanders
& beg me to drive. hands shaking,
i plead to stop at a rest stop
in new jersey. we consume
suspicious salads & diet soda.
there are halos in the glove box.
i am hanging on in the hope
that when i reopen this life
it will all seem glorious.