Crickling, crackling bang

of my slowly breaking starlight.

And my distant solar system:

(My entire word)

strung out like messy strings

while others are tied

in neat little packages

with bows.

And if I could pick and choose my universe

I wouldn't have these stick-on

lopsided hearts.

They'd be set in straight lines and permanent.

And I could scream at the

top of my lungs

that I like to dream about

tomorrow and hold my

head up to the rain.