The moments spent acting like you’re making love to a person
are the most blinding of them all.
Turn us into ashen cocktails of white and blue
from the flames of setting stars.

Those nights you become whitecaps on oceans,
she is sunset orange,
and only one of two wants to be there -
that is why you are always churning.

Each time you whisper “I love you,”
before her irises set behind eyelids
you will slowly realize you have been an actor
and this play has not been paying you.

You will one day quit pretending,
let this star exhale its own mortality,
begin finding the smiles you overlooked
while she flared above you;

When your waters calm,
you may find a new star to whisper to,
but this time without scripts;
this time Honestly.