Why do I think that
small gifts will curry favor?
I can't give my friends what they deserve.
I'm a cockroach in the dark
desperate for the light of their love;
let me feed off the wreckage of my damaged hopes,
my daring to dream of simple pleasures:
the embrace of camaraderie,
the gentle swelling of our hearts together,
a reassurance of their caring for me,
and the space to let the insecticide to work its magic.

I can't fathom my worth,
what is a star's worth in a universe of light?
Precious little, I reckon.
Their existence will carry on unscathed
by the dying of the light,
and so I go now, wearily,
into the loneliness of that night.