In creeping comfort
he darted forth,
repenting, demeaning,
making sins a nonentity among demons.

Swallowed by the irony,
his scissors skin blushed heavily
‘neath a rake of pearly lies.

Nothing was made for him,
in a den of lions and thieves
and the corduroy quiet of his own brain;
but outside maybe letters came
with names he’d called himself
in the farthest reaches of the galaxy.

Sometimes he would crawl out the window,
lie on his back and soar,
feeling the gravitational pull disperse
beneath the pressure
of ( ≥ ) 2,000 stars.

Without knowing,
night would collapse against his
sun-danced skin,
make his thoughts a jumbled purr of nonsense,
a kaleidoscope heaven of ‘maybe-if’s.

And dreams would be only light-years away,
seeming inches from the tip
of his nose,
colliding with the insanity of every day
and the hell of knowing that
‘the sun’ll come out
tomorrow’.

Maybe, his thoughts persuade him,
it will be the truth instead.

And then he might be able
to stay in space
forever.