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every early morning, i scrape down
the last light
from the constellations;
stars, i feel suit my demands.
sifting, rinsing them
through shivering hands;
sky wishes
too hot to hold.
fingertips scorched,
gaze blown like a bulb,
for trying to own
the intensity.

in a blink of sad
surprise,
the stars have collapsed
in on themselves,
years gone black.
now nervous hands,
wring out
the last of the dust
from on high.
as each wish
doubles back on me,
with a delicate, defeated sigh.