all this time it never mattered how sensitive the ridges
in my fingertips are to metallic surface finish,
inspecting the cold aluminum like braille for defects,
how fluent I am in composite porosity repairs, how many
material allowable properties I can rattle off the top
of my head, because I

used to sing the Oh Hellos with you in the basement,
thinking that the air in my lungs would fill the space with much less exertion once I
could watch a rocket engine hot fire with boots on the ground in the
slimy large intestine of july in some remote part of texas,
and at 17 I never imagined that rumble to be like a cataclysm, it is
glorious but somehow at 17 I

pictured 23 to be happier than sitting on a dorm bed next to you illuminated by star-shaped string lights on the walls,
or maybe just less painful than watching your face
change shape from halfway across the country, wondering how different
your voice would sound singing the bridge, and
afraid that my voice will never sound any different than it used to