You’ll call for me when tossing, hoping to open eyes to a better-looking truth, but encountering just that tired amalgam of time to bullshit my way through another day and blind optimism. I’ll hear you, from my place in a dying galaxy. Face in a crowd, you’ll never catch more than glimpses of a future you could have claimed. Red scarf here, black boots there, eyebrows that high-five the heavens at your stare. We will never again have a decent reason to embrace onstage at a run-down club while cops raid, nor to travel oceans for a punchline. Tattoo yourself with the shape of your sorrow, but don’t stay up swearing at stars, since this is not their doing. I’ll toss as well, into those handsome arms of love, where I will belong.
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