I've been thinking of the stars,
and all I picture are doorknobs.
Ones I hope you twist open.
The one to my sanctuary.
The sactuary which houses my bed and technology.
The place that smells like me.
The handle is always yearning your touch
It extends itself to every hand that reaches
and locks itself when it realizes that
the hand reaching for it is not your own.
It locks when it knows that it is not you,
And it never is.
I've been thinking of the stars and
All I see are beards.
Blankets of ****** hair.
And thick arms.
And legs.
And I wish that your feet arms and legs
and your whole self
would creak through my room.
Gazing at me glued on my stomach
with my eyes bleeding onto the screen.
I've been thinking of the stars and
All I really end up thinking of
Are you,
your shoes when I step in them
and attempt to walk
And understand that it is hard to
When you're going a long distance.