Damn this ridiculous organ…

this heart, even now swelling not at the curvature of the earth, the perfect milky edge of it, peeling away forever as a road with no beginning or end, and the sky beaming romantic and beckoning, offering up its various blues and the universe literally on my shoulders and all stars ready to drip light, burn through to bone—indeed, fill me with all that is silver and ancient. Even now, within touching distance of God and the angels, the twenty-four Jinas and lineage of saints, I wonder if you are scanning the night imagining me as a small flare between the constellations.