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.