i’m so tired of having a body

i would do much better as a star

or a river—

no, an ocean—

or a ray of sunlight

or a moonbeam

i would much prefer to live

in an unfinished manuscript

or in the dream that inspired it

or in a photograph hung upon a wall

or in the click of the camera that took it

or in the melody of a piano duet

or in the hoot of an owl

or in a toddler’s laugh

if i am made of stardust

and can have ideas and can be inspired—

and can feel so deeply and so often

happiness sorrow rage love—

if i can love—

why should i contain myself in flesh and bones?

where is my vastness, my omnipresence?

when will my consciousness overflow

and tangle with the migrating geese, 

the frog’s croak, the stream’s bubbles?

i am so sick of being just me

i want to dig my fingers into soil

and grow roots

i want to turn my face to the rain

and dissolve into the ground

into the clouds

i would fly too close to the sun

if it meant the melting of my wings

would return me to the sea

instead my body will choke if buried

drown if underwater

and freeze the moment i leave the planet

and i am left to keep wondering:

what could a body give me that the stars cannot?