the sun and the moon and all of the dust between the height of your wings, they used to be full of flight but now I can touch the ice of orange rays and the red of dented craters beneath the pads of my ever fumbling fingers and it gives off a smoke in my stomach that even bullet exit wounds don't leave behind. i'm craving fizzy drinks again to numb out the stars in my eyes that won't stop constellating the white hope in your burning palms, have you been climbing blue fences again? the night doesn't tire often but the last comet that flew by last January the 7th looked exhausted and it had something to do with the way you blinked away fire from the moments you forgot to count