You Are Waiting For Great Things, For the Coming of the Stars

I know it is only nighttime

the wind grows loud now,

and the cacophonies in our heads grow large

and you, whoever you may be, are far away,

watching hours pass from behind your own loneliness.

It is only this vacant stretch of night

and the slow beat of aching comes dancing into your knuckles,

comes storming heavy through your marrow

when it seems in all the world there may be nothing but oblivion,

nothing but nothingness,

and I know you are afraid, whoever you are.

I know because I am afraid,

because I can feel that ache like my bones have turned to daggers or to lead,

like my blood is only nightshade.

And I know too that chamomile and sleep are only small melodies,

little sounds that do not fill the hours,

or the gouged out pieces of black hole in your pitted chest.

But stitch yourself these remedies anyway, love, whoever you are.

There will be many nights for greater things.

There will be many nights to ponder the stars.