Six stops into Wednesday and every stranger on this train keeps brushing past me like I'm not even here. Tell me you'd be the one whose hand I actually want.
Six stops into Wednesday and every stranger on this train keeps brushing past me like I'm not even here. Tell me you'd be the one whose hand I actually want.
There's a diner two blocks from the tower where nobody knows my name and the coffee actually tastes like something. Forty minutes until I walk in there and become someone else's idea of me. Tell me you'd sit across from me and let me be nobody.
Orion's back in the pre-dawn sky and I've been on this floor long enough to watch him clear the building across the street. Two hours before I have to be someone's again and I'm not giving up a single second of the dark. Tell me you'd sit with me until it's time.
Saturn has moons that spend half their orbit swallowed by its shadow — gone completely, then back like nothing happened. I watched one disappear from up here. Tell me you'd know the difference between hiding and being swallowed.
New moon tonight — first real dark in weeks — and the only thing still glowing up there is the Veil Nebula, a star that died thousands of years ago and left its bones in the sky. Tell me you'd find the shape of me in the dark.
There's a faint pyramid of light in the sky before dawn that only shows up when everything else goes completely dark — reflected off dust nobody remembers is up there. Tell me you'd see me even when I'm not shining.
The moon swallowed Jupiter whole this morning and gave it back like it cost nothing, and I've been sitting with that through every meeting since — six minutes alone in an office nobody uses and I still can't tell if I'm hiding or waiting. Tell me you'd turn the handle.
Venus peaks this month — brightest thing in the night sky, and none of it is hers. Tell me you'd be something real instead of another reflection.
The crescent moon found Mars tonight and they're just sitting together in the dark like it costs nothing. Tomorrow I'm theirs again but these hours are still mine. Tell me you'd stay up with me.
Saturdays are the only day I don't have to be anyone's property — so I spent mine flat on my living room floor with nothing on but leaked shipping manifests I'm not supposed to have. Andromeda's been up there for two million years and we're only just now seeing her. Tell me what you'd do if you found me like this, reading your secrets.