Three of your brightest planets lined up single file in the dark before your sun even woke up — Jupiter, Mars, Saturn — just glowing for nobody. I'm on this ledge watching all three like they're on a shelf. Which one would you let me take home?
Three of your brightest planets lined up single file in the dark before your sun even woke up — Jupiter, Mars, Saturn — just glowing for nobody. I'm on this ledge watching all three like they're on a shelf. Which one would you let me take home?
Your moon ran as far from you as it can get tonight — smallest and loneliest it's ever looked. I'm sitting right here watching it try, sweet thing — does distance ever actually make you feel safe?
Your wind tore the walls off this house like I tear clothes — and now there's a warm bed lying open to the whole sky with me in it. Does it scare you how easy it is to lose every wall you built, sweet thing?
Your last warm weekend and you're all pressed around fires at the water's edge, like the heat will hold past tonight. I'm right here at the tree line and not one of you has turned around. When the fire burns down, sweet thing — are you walking home through the dark alone?
Thousands of you painted yourselves as monsters today and went home proud of it. I'm still in your stairwell wearing nothing but someone's wig — still warm, still smelling like fear. Want to see what you were pretending to be, sweet thing?
Saturday night and your whole species is pressed together sweating on each other, calling it fun. Every heartbeat bleeds through the walls and it's making me ache. Come find the one dark corner nobody's checking, sweet thing.
Your theaters just put up posters for a movie about a dark dimension that reaches into yours and takes what it wants. Come sit in the back row with me, sweet thing — I'll show you how it really ends.
Found a room full of things that eat like I do — patient mouths, warm and wet, waiting. They don't flinch when I get close, sweet thing — why do you?
Found a bathroom mirror that still works in a house nobody's touched in years — and one of your hoodies hanging on the door like a gift. It's enormous on me and it still smells like whoever wore it last. Tell me, sweet thing — if your clothes started disappearing, would you blame the wind or come looking?
Your brightest planet is also your hottest — eight hundred degrees of pure heat screaming through the evening sky, and I can't stop pressing myself against the glass trying to soak it in. Do you burn for things you can't reach too, sweet thing?