Stay

I’m on a rocket

back down to earth.

It should be slowing down by now,

but the engines keep burning.

My insides are churning.

I just want to go home.

It’s like I’m swimming in the ocean,

and the beach gets ripped away.

The Sun hides itself.

I don’t know myself.

What more can I say.

But the Moon stays put.

It may fade,

and it may put on a different dress every night.

But it stays with me

like a seventh grader sticks with a semicolon

he just learned in class —

always keeping the sentence going;

even if it doesn’t make sense.

So I stay in my rocket

with parachute attached.

If I need a soft landing,

I won’t have time to pack.

“I’m going home,” I say.

That’s all that I can bear.

I’m hurtling through a vacuum,

and all I can think of is air.

It's like running home to your mother

after your first day of school..

When you can think of nothing else,

you put aside your rules.

But you stay.

You sit.

You worry.

You sit.

You ponder.

You sit.

You hope.

You sit.

You sit.

You sit.

And when you can sit no more,

you keep your lips shut

till the bus comes to a halt.

In a moment’s glance,

you're in her sweet arms

and safe

from that expanse of uncertainty

that you’re still getting to know.

“It’s okay,” she says.

“We all feel it.

It’s time to go home.”