i've heard you
talking to the stars.
do your scars
heal with their light?
do they feel,
compassionate and kind,
your sorrow,
and understand
your blue life?

i've talked to them once
cold as iced ice,
they wasted my time.

i like talking to the
grass, the flowers
instead.
they aren't dead,
immortal or fire-red.
they aren't wise,
they just empathise.
the trees, the green
sometimes talk back
and i listen like a child;
the rustling leaves,
the broken twigs.

but you look up!
bored of the ground,
you need their coldness,
their empty shiny eyes.