sick of being sick and tiredi'm donewithforsaken soulsearchingall through thenightmaking my armslook likei just got back from the butcher'sshopi'm sorryfor all i've donewrong and thatwhich i haven't done at allthis is my confessionnot tobe mistaken as a prayerthis is a dreamnotanything i consider fair
dear midnightmy earthy mattress tickles my neckas i lay down to stare at my love,but i am not looking over;i am looking up.power lines scar her stellardark-blue face, and city lightspollute her skin like a thousandspotlights on an over-powdered model.but i am not concerned abouther blemishes; no, tonight i am hereto find flawlessness beneaththe flaws.and so i gazethe stars are the freckleson heaven's nose, and the cloudsthe hair of Venus herself.i reach up to try to sift my fingersthrough her wispy white locks,but find she is too far away.a single star drifts across the darkcheeks of the night, and i fearshe is crying over our unrequiteddistance. i can see herclear as crystal vision,but i am merelya speck on her spectacles.i turn my head and seethe harvest moon cradledin heaven's arms, her cratersfrothing over like chilled strawberrywine, and ii am drunk.
her shooting star. once upon a time... there was a girl. she never danced along the milky way.she never trapped any stars in her web of hair. she never ran away with a shooting star. [although he's tempted her to] *there she was, probably a lone space rockfloating in space, living her days beside othermoons and planets that outshined her, she's been waiting.