Your fingers lose feeling from picking apart your brain.
Grey.
Pull out loneliness and an awakening.
The stars you wish to bathe in,
the melodies you live in,
the lips you dream of crossing - all fiction.

Strings of letters,
Ink soaked memories,
pale lilac wishes to reflect skies,
Green irises built from pine,
Nonexistent.
Intangible.

The planets don't owe you,
Not in prediction,
Not in stability.
They are content, home, radiant.
I keep time with my heel, below,
desperate,
passing.