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.