you think that you can get to me,
hurt me
with your sideways looks;
half glances
and carrying whispers
maybe you can
and maybe sometimes
i will go home with red eyes
and swollen cheeks

but you can't continue watering
dead flowers
and so in time when i have
come home and
condemned you to the ends of the earth
i will remember that there
is still someone who cares about me
enough to talk about
nothing and everything for hours
as we lie
on the cold metal slabs of the
veranda roof
and to waste their 11:11 wishes
on me
and although they might not have
the prettiest of faces,
their heart is oh so much bigger
and warmer than yours
will ever be
and the way they make others smile
so much that their
cheeks ache
is so much more beautiful
than the brightest star
and their soul is embroidered
in intricate patterns
with the fine white stitching
that the sun has turned the
warmest yellow
and yours hasn't even sewn
with the darkest of
black threads
and so then the sun will never even
be able to turn them
a lighter shade of
grey

and for that i pity you,
that your heart is darker than
the oldest and loneliest tombstone
in a forgotten graveyard

and when we're floating on our
yellow strings
we will watch you blunder
in the darkness
feeling around unseeing for
the blunt needle
with the short black thread
barely attached
so you might stitch yourself
back up
but its already rolled away
to the furthest corner
and is now being covered in layer upon layer
of dust
and when you look up from your
wishing well
hoping that someone will choose you as their
11:11 wish
so that you will be able to sew your
way out
of your cold and forgotten well
but you wait and wait
in vein
and i feel sorry for you
for you have no one who
cares enough
to thread your needle
for you
and cover your heart in
yellow stitching
or close their eyes even for the shortest
milliseconds
and wish on your star
which was never shining very brightly
in the first place.