i flicker, a capricious christmas light
trapped in my own plastic. i am
a synthetic star, exponentially
inferior with a lifespan measured
in calendars rather than graves
of gas and ice and light; i will never
ornament the night and dance in
constellations. i am on a respirator:
this heart beats a graph of
sine and secant (i dreamed, once,
i went off the grid: erratic and
unpredictable) and my comatose
fantasia sprayed a cityscape of
honeyed memories on the underside
of my eyelids—when i fall asleep,
all i see is you (love?). wires and white
plastic keep me artificial and locked
on a timer; i'll go out again soon—
i'm sorry if i wake you.