Texting at 2AM

I’d like to erase my name as though frost from a windowsill so you can see my face more clearly. Little lush. I hold my warrants heavy, though when I forget them they feign. No documents to show nor profile to post. Sometimes

I feel I am no more (though perhaps less light than) a forgotten balloon: penniless and rising. Mute but for bubble blurbs my fingers itch. I would show you how brittle the things left below had I the courage. I do not expect you

To join me as my vision blurs. I do not expect the exosphere. So long as I do not burst, for I am fragile and prone to hot heights. 

I await, in spite of this, a bird to show me how it is possible to be so full.