Tell me about the scattered-star sky. 

How I dance with echoing laughter, 

stumble and graze my wrists by a comet 

and how you look at me with a loving flash in your eyes. 

Remind me about the charming rotting weeds on the side of the road 

that nobody expected to bloom 

but here we are. 

How I’m looking at you in the puddles on the highway road. 

The radio aches our tune that passes continents. 

Rotted daises tossed on the floor, 

long trampled on, 

But you pick them up and chain them together anyway. 

For once they grow. 

Let me tell you about how the quiet planning, 

The midnight misery, 

And how the radio’s deadly silent for hour. 

‘Get ready for the waterworks,’ echoes a failed father. 

The breaths are unsteady. 

Tender wrists, 

The skins grew back thinner, this’ll be easier, 

And I’m back alone. 

The radio shuffles. 

There are muffled screams and the guilt rushes into us 

like rain hammering onto the road 

Smashed brass on the floor, 

and cracked voices. 

The knife catches a sliver of light, flashing, and I look at you, 

And it rings as it drops on the floor.