I pretended to be under the stars with you.
The make-shift strobe lights from cheap laser pointers became shooting stars in which you offered wishes while I look in amazement. I don't know the color of the stars in space, but ours are red. And red is anger and hunger and maybe that's why it didn't last.
Or maybe, I'm just blaming those cheap laser pointers because I have to justify my short-lived love, my faults.