dreaming of light as she rests and she waits
for the dust of her skin to erupt into fire
so that she may shine, a beacon, a hope,
when the blackness divulges honesty.
a frame, as she sweeps the nebula
with phosphorous lips, her nitrogen heart
and the oxygen breath of a kiss --
but carbon tastes like whisky and gin
and her iron-clad teeth leave crescent shapes
on a parched tongue, in a thirsty soul.
she burnt out long ago.
caressing the moon with desire;
a reflective movement, reflective thoughts
catching rays with fluttering lashes.
the warmth of someone else’s light
on the craters of her freckled face, and spite -
a motionless hand seeking emotionless gestures
and the world in which she loves,
spins and whirls and ruptures on the tips
of her fingers, then, and she is no longer
in orbit, waiting for time to stop
because she is pointless, twisting in darkness
severing the galaxy she tended to.
~
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