Babel

How far do we go?

At what point does a kiss become a

distant fraction of a memory,

something you can’t vividly see

in the haze of all the dark blue past.

And when that becomes a dull feeling

in the back of your beating brain,

then what?

What more do you want when that kiss isn’t enough?

At what point does the hand holding

and the whispering laughs at midnight

not beat in your brain anymore,

just tickle,

or perhaps meddle with your mind?

When someone builds you a boat,

you no longer wish to feel the oars in your hands;

you want a ship.

You want a monstrosity of a name printed on your ship.

You want a monstrosity.

How far does the Tower of Babel have to climb

before we can face God in the eyes?

How far do the spaceships soar before we can

taste the stars and

hold the atmosphere like a small child’s hand?

How much farther must we look down into the earth

before we can find our foundation and roots?

How many mico-anythings?

How many kisses?

How far do we go

to pretend we are anything at all?

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