I stared too long at the murky sky,

the twilight before the sun rose,

when the gray reflected my thoughts.

It’s how I first noticed the seam,

the fissure in the horizon.

It grew smaller as the sky turned pink

so I stuck my hand through and pulled

creating an opening that sucked me in.

The black of the universe swallowed me

and through galaxies and constellations

I fell past planets and asteroids,

the wonders held within the cosmos,

landing on an earth that wasn’t Earth.

The trees and clouds a comfort I missed,

the bright yellows and blues of the sky,

foreign soil silenced and still.

I was an invader without intention,

a connoisseur of what could be.

Unaware of the gray reforming,

the horizon opening once more,

the eyes that searched,

the hands that reached

to ward against contamination

and send me back home.

___

BEA LAPKA is a mental health counselor who moonlights as a poet. She writes horror and fantasy under Bree Buonomo. You can find her on IG @bree.b.writes