i.
sometimes when the sky is so dark
that there are no stars
and even the moon is hidden
there's a man who sits,
legs folded beneath his long body,
on his roof, wishing for a cigarette
and trying to decide
if the sky is as important
as they make it be.
ii.
but there are nights
when it's just all to bright
so he closes all his curtains
and coils within himself,
all dark curls and deep eyes–
he pressed his pillow to his head,
blood throbbing in his temple
because the sound of keys from the room over
is overbearing, and damn,
does he wish for a smoke
to calm his fraying nerves.
iii.
and when he wakes screaming,
like he did as a child
with the sheets a mess in his fists,
the torment still fresh in his head,
he feels the form of another man
as he pulls him close,
whispering– he's the smell of safety
and the dark haired man clings to him,
tasting the bitterness of his own tears
against the other's collarbone–
and goddamn, could he use a drink
because he feels that he's loosing himself
amongst the stars.
