In February,
Orion’s belt burns
To the Northeast.
And for a brief moment,
We face the same direction
From two thousand kilometres.

Three seconds.

The walk on the tightrope,
Doesn’t seem too different
From that of the hard, wooden floor beneath my feet.

My eyes lock with all
Three speckles in the sky,
Burning flames of passion,
Yet cars still flow by.

So swiftly and so loud,
In the quiet of the night.
The arrow in the sky,
Shining so, so, so  bright.

Three dots in the sky,
Telling me to stay.