where I'm too awake
and you're too honest.
You tell me you have your fix:
leave a constellation on the walls,
your star gazing eyes glazing.
But no, please--
You are more than a meteor.
More than a flash, crash, burn.
It's like the sky is cracked
and the stars are slipping into space.
The pockmarked, indecisive moon
has turned her back on you, as before.
But I am still in orbit.
Maybe if you are drunk enough, you'll lean on me
slur out solar systems of sadness,
stagger down streets through broken nebulae of lights.
Maybe tell me you're sorry; I was right.
But after so many oblivious shooting stars,
somehow I doubt it.