The night has eyes,
The curtains agape,
The stars have thoughts,
Loops you can never escape.

And by some power my hands
They were painting a morning,
The whites and blacks were missing,
The warm orange, a warning.

Showered by recreated currents,
Meeting my ever dry tongue,
In shallow gasps I begin to wonder,
Where I ended and the sky begun.

**Does it matter if we were one?