In Love (not a poem, but in lines)

falling in love with nothing
is keeping sand and water
in tightly shut palms
yet at some point
it is also flying to the clouds
and sleeping
on the moon
until you rolled to its tip
it tips over and
you fall back
with your wings
partly clipped
and your face muddied.
then
you open your closed palm
to see a star
beaming, saying
"the ride didn’t make sense
but it was the most curious
flight"
falling is doom
a fascinating addictive kind