i am unessential to a map of stars;
the plots in constellations connect just fine without me
but in memories of a future
forecast by a boy
i would never know how to live
on the ground

the mundane way of living in this place
has declared me human
but if the bugs slave, building homes to live in
then i guess i'm part bug too
and, my friend, so are you
but in fantasies of afternoons
untraveled by a sole
i ride elephants through courtyards commanding you
and with my eyes closed to the moment
i still feel the heavens calling me
to make paper into jet plane, lift off,
and forever look down upon this unforgiving town

i am not a miracle cure
i'm not even a painkiller.

anything
and everything lives and dies
without me;
so unnecessary.