The morning wakes and
you feel the gravity for the first time, a feel
unnoticed, like a spider bite mid-sleep,
minus some legs, plus some blood: a bug
that crawls as the body sprawls
for comfort. But there is no comfort
when the gravity is felt; it's a hunger,
a pang that rumbles, desperate
like the stomach but it sates; it sates
with your thoughts; you can hear it
nibble away at your brain: a decay
that delays the response of stimulation, a build-up
of pressure developed by the gravity. You meet
a person for the first time, and you greet
that person and the first impression is the
first sign of progression: a regression
by repetition; you speak to this person
by the day, this person responds
by the day; but this person does not
initiate the interaction, only a fraction of the time,
by the week at the least. You then feel
the gravity again; you believe you made
a friend: a person you make laugh without effort,
but then it becomes effort. The gravity
grows too great, the weight drags your smile down
like an anchor; the repetition wrecked that person
who no longer laughs, who no longer breathes your air,
who saw the weight you carried and
grew tired: bond brief like a fad.