to have been lead through
slumbering paddocks by
held hands; hope, the  
deity, nonexistent and relentless,
i felt alive-  
was i but the subject
of her meticulously-planned humour?
was i the joke,  
or the punchline?

boldly ripening into
mistaken aphasias, i
find my melting thoughts
matriculating into sharp
movements in the dark:
curves patterned,  
ribcages' separation, a gaussian blur of
intertwined epidermal rivulets,
your soft, slow imaginings becoming
tiny flecks of graphite smeared
a page's width, intricately sown
across skin, that light trickles
through a sliver in the curtains
to wordlessly illuminate.  

seventh memory: a peeling away,
a mandarin on the kitchen counter.
watching stars disappear  
from atop the balustrade, we sit
mere fragments apart, yet
at great distance, like  
the fog of the cities we carry out
the moments of    
our regularized lives, within.

finally, i become translucent.
yet,      
what have the stars become?