We are floating, primitive and desperate.
Frantic to revolve.
Our arms cannot open as we adjust our sights.
How wonderful it must be to depend on you.

And then I think, "There's nothing here that's mine."
It is not in me to save.
Ebbing always at the edge of safety:
My star, it never reached for me.

And my mind, a cast of iron, loses balance on the last flight of stairs.