This night, there are no stars.

watching sky darken,
we contemplate
words like leaden,

sultry, in-
digo. but leaden
is closer to

the slivered prison
of my rib-cage,
bars behind which

this ache pro-
creates. sultry
means barefoot river

afternoons and indigo
has always been
grotesque, except

on peacocks.
so instead i watch
raindrop veins

on plateglass,
think of melting &
the sublimation

of misted breath,
remember sweat
on glasses,

graveled chaos,
rug-burnt morning
sunlight before

the world changed.
but these windows
will not open and we

feel guilty for
our guilt, wonder
why the stars

stay absent. are
river afternoons so
different, now?

we watch and already
rain is slowing; veins
close & strand drops

in streetlit glass,
almost like star-
light. almost.