Someone once told me
that late evening conversations
about stars are pathetic,
that people use them as a crutch
pointing blindly at their useless light.
We can change the subject,
if you ever want to know what I mean.
The future is what I’m talking about
spread like jam across your sticky fingers
spread like stars against a mud-black sky.
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I feel ever so sad for whomever told that to you
That is someone who is never here