Forget Me In Space

Sher Ting

The stars stared unflinching into my body,

their wild eyes lingering on the epithelium of my thoughts,


curving the night into a question,

curled fetal against my chest:


How do you dream when each dream feels like

a culmination of every half-moon you’ve missed?


How does an asteroid feel,

hurtling into gravity’s reach,


knowing it’ll burn up on contact with the stratosphere,

knowing it is on a one-way trajectory to death?


I blink out sunspots

from lucid dreaming,


unravelling a staccato of lights

across the night-ocean


My breath tunnels rivers of ichor

through a gibbous trachea


The world catches its bones

in my valleculae


Take this body of light, its rinds of miracle and dust,

ambrosial tears percolating into lucent hands


Tell me how it writes itself over and over again

into bold and italic till it writes itself into existence


How it lives like the sun

but feels like rain


How life and quantum superposition are both a paradox,

how I’m dead but alive, and


No one knows the difference

because no one knows me


And though the stars tessellate through the sky

like a pointillist mirage, their eyes to me,


They don’t see that my lungs glisten

from prayers buried in nascent serosa


They don’t see that my liver bleeds

from its daily torment


My body is light-feathered

as a wax-winged metaphor


My skin smolders and fades

like the waning moon


and I fold myself into paper thoughts

and plastic hands, to perform a diorama of existence


as I drift ever-higher into the space

within space,


the hadopelagic gutter

in a dream-solvent system,


where the atoms of my dreams collide

in sublime and luminary gloss,


levitating in cosmic emptiness,

sucked into pitch-black nothingness,


clocking in at zero-gravity

fading into black


till i am empty

nothing


gone

About the Author

Sher Ting has lived in Singapore for nineteen years before spending the next five years in medical school in Australia. She has work published/forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Opia Mag, Overheard, and Door Is A Jar, among others. She is currently an editor of INLY Arts and The Aurora Journal, and a poetry reader for Farside Review. She tweets at @sherttt and writes at downintheholocene.wordpress.com.