You can’t play with matches, but you can play with hearts.
Nighttime’s longish plain hours.
I stare at the sky but don’t see you. Instead
it is the vastness of blue patterns with glistening silver balls:
on repeat, on repeat, on repeat.
I sit on the grass.
Life for me has been simple,
much like that of stars.
They stand at their place among millions, and shine
bright some days and not-so-bright the rest,
waiting to be wrapped
into the Eternal Blanket at last.
They don’t reach the Moon like I can’t reach You.
I can’t move.
And the desire–only the desire fills me with so much fear I tremble like a sick man
with its fever.
I will embrace a sadder ending, I guess.
I walk on the grass and tell you in my heart how I love
the wet, tickling feel of it.
I wish you were here but I wish I would stop wishing that soon.
I need to move on, like we all do.
I never knew where I was heading to until I found myself
stranded and alone.
I have missed your presence on many occasions.
I have known the void–the unfillable void–
and I’ve tried everything in my power to help it.
Only, it just grows.
They tell us not to play with matches.
Why don’t they teach us ways of protecting and surviving instead?
If you can list me horrors of things that could bring harm,
why can’t you freaking save me? Or tell a remedy?
Fire burns, yes. But so do feelings.
Did nobody tell you: you should not incite in others what you have no intention of serving?
That breaking hearts is just as lethal, that being in someone’s tears
just as dangerous as is blissful being in prayers?
Stars disappear every day, seeing life after dark after life
You won’t care if I tell you how I do, too.