He lay staring up at the stars
The dewy Grass beneath his black coat.
Pulling up his sleeves, he reveals the scars.
Wondering if there should be another on his throat.
He thinks back to a time when we called the moon ours.
On his skin, he wrote
The name on his tongue sours
His heart raced as he wondered when they last spoke
He thinks back to all the fowers
That went up in smoke.
Now the thought makes him remember the arguments when they spoke.
His pillow still harnesses the midnight showers
He now lay to stare at the moon for hours.