I find comfort in your rage.
I feel chosen, to witness
You dying on stage is
Such a grand sight to behold.

When we count the stars
As we count our problems
Involunterally, I swear,
I find that one constellation
That kinda looks like us.

I do not point it out.
That would be selfish.
And the comfort would be
Replaced by anxiety
Replaced by a broken
Vow of sobriety.

And no longer would
My shoulders be wet
From tears shed on a
Beautiful night under
The stars, that I could
No longer name.

So I stay silent and hope
That next time the rage
Won’t be ignited by
You being upset that
No one is there for you.