your curious fingertipsMature

hang off the ledge of this balcony
like so much dead weight and I can’t help
but feel like letting go some nights
when the wind is strong and the moon
is nothing but a narrow sliver of light
somewhere in the vast sea of empty night.
I hate when the darkness is starless
and I find myself wondering if you see
the constellations dying under my skin,
no longer fueled by the light of the evening sun,
and I wonder if I’m growing dimmer and
I wonder how many things you’ve discarded
once their sheen wore off beneath the press
of your curious fingertips.

The End

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