after eight nights spent
lost in the moon's circumference,
my telescope turns inward:
and it should be enough
to ride sleep patterns into dawn,
except: I'm always adrift, an astral voyager
without orbit, and gravity itself
is only a lunar dream.
my shadow-painted eyes swim
like van Gogh's swirling horizon, murky
and painted glistening upon
the twisted canvas of the galaxy,
as I burn indigo up to the shifting veil of stars.
and all I can do is map cursive constellations
on my skin, marking metaphors
or meteors on my wrists
to find my way home.
a/n: I'm always wishing on another dead star.