the stars will fall out of their sockets.
A stain of grease has sparked a bearded lip;
the flustered face implodes with bread crumbs.
“I am the universe!” – a brazen voice reveals,
too bright for our blind confessions.
You tell me that the stars
have not been kind to you.
That the ones that bound you to your cunning love
have slackened from around your ankles.
That you drag your ruffles
on the goosebumped cobblestone
in search for more than gravity.
The universe has not been kind,
but when the smokescreen clears
perhaps its ecstasy will cease
and from the corner of your grin
a neon afterglow will swerve
our paths, making the nightshade breath