You told me once, in the wrought iron of January, that I saw a different truth than others, that my reality hid somewhere between vertebrae and yellow brick, a quiet disconnect that had long gone unnoticed. And as you spoke, the tobacco stained sunset and the turquoise of our town collided; a fire soaked skyline of awful honesty. That night, I prayed to dead stars in the fluorescent language of the lost. My apologies mixing with the nicotine and lips begging for time I did not deserve.