Midpoint

I am sitting on this bench at the top
of this hill, gazing down at the highway to Heaven,
and waiting for the stars to fall.

It's a cold night tonight - the 4th of December -
and the air is starting to freeze and
fall to the ground. This isn't snow.
There isn't room in this airless, breathless world
for snow.

This is a patient ghost's stakeout;
a haunting so silent that even a dog can't smell it.
Fragments of the memories of psychedelic dreams
awaken slowly, and even they can't smell it.
The loss of senses burns
and my throat is dry.

Even tonight, in this moonless, starless sky
there is a darkness cast by the streetlights
that stand guard at each side of the highway.
There aren't any headlights tonight. Are they late?
Or are they all still clinging to flesh
for one more
second
of this life?

There isn't a war in this world
that could move me from here. Not tonight.
Not tonight when there is so much to wait for,
and hope for, and pray for. Did I say
that there's only one way to end this?
There are two sides to the highway but no signpost
to point out the right way to go.
Is this what fate means?

Only I can see the invisible hole in the sky
and the cracks in the clouds. The sunlight has faded
slowly; I have no one to talk to now.

But tonight I am waiting patiently
for the stars to start to fall down.