hold your breath and pull it from your stomach
the dark is the safest place to touch my hand
so let's just watch that silver strand come up
silent and sure in its way
slipping past sharp lungs
drenched lungs, crystals floating on the surface
the salt from a father's sweat and a mother's tears
grown quickly thick from wordless fears
they thought we couldn't hear
"these are not children of the night"
they whispered, certain
but we're not children
we're stars that don't know how to implode
but we'd better find out because i know
the dark is the safest place to touch my hand
so if we keep on shining like the floorboards don't feel it
i won't know how to face us anymore

hold your breath and pull it from your stomach
through your mouth, out like a circus clown
glowing faint like the street lamps of your hometown
blood and ink and bathroom sinks don't matter
when they're knit in a scarf of impermanence
wrapped around some lopsided snowman
knocked off and away by the neighborhood dog
and soon forgotten
lost in a flurry of teacups and time
and floor-scattered tissues

hold your breath and pull it from your stomach
i'll wait to make sure you breathe again
and in the silence
we can play cat's cradle