I concede that
I am a mess. I am a
massive pile of
insecurities, despondence
and cigarette ashes.
I cannot apologize for
the squalor, all I can do
is clean it up
as best as I can
because I like you
that much.
I like you
too much.

You should be here with
me in this voided
hemisphere beneath the
blanket of stars. They’re
shimmering off excess
star dust and they fall
down in specks of azure
and violet as if heaven wants
to come and visit. You
should be embracing me
with your tender arms,
shielding me from harms
way, making sure I’m
secure and safe in case the
stars somehow gained gravity
and came crashing down
on to the Earth. You should
be treading your tongue in
the hollows be hide my
lips, collecting my vapid
saliva white shooting
stars glide across the
sky. You should be
here with me,
but you’re not.

Stop.

You can’t keep
treading your approximate
hands full of lust upon my skin
when your dulcet eyes
gazing upon my face
are full of love