this is me: on the edge between us because we are dying happily together and we fall when we cry -- when stars sparkle it is not, it is fairy dust, it is snow not falling but falling off of trees when we shout hard because sound is traveling, radio waves, can you solve it with a vector and an x until the answer comes clear? I don't know you try it first or otherwise the day might end early, too early we can't -- wooden desks with pristine untouched computers while snow outside is stomped through we are holding tea in too-hot hands and boiling ourselves into submission.

this is an elegy.
this is falling on the edges, not the middle but far far out, we are fringes, we are nothing, we are ignored even though the universe only goes on forever, because that's how long we'll be falling through non-dark darkness till we hit a star and explode in nuclear fusion (but since gravity is at a nothing falling will be more difficult than it seems, than it seemed, than we are good at rising) like smoke under pressure we will stay.

this is a celebration.
this is climbing inch-thick branches in computer-screensaver perfect days when the sky can't help but be perfectly blue with sheep-fluffy clouds and you, you wring your hands like there's nothing left to do but actually just cold we are not understanding anymore - communication is down, houston, we have a problem, we are lost.

this is a radio broadcast.
this is music blaring at the top of my lungs, oh yes, dancing to the beats of distant drums and electro-pop symphonies, we are falling to the ground in waves of dizziness from spinning until we are dying and dying with the music again and again.

this is a dream.
this is mice chasing as they dream softly into nighttime, they are sighing as they are falling into mousetraps as we fall nightmarishly into lives, we are falling, we are flying--

this is thought.
this is me: sitting here happily middling, your conversation and shouting we are happy.

this is truth.