Tonight,
her house is the universe,
her friends are stars
and
she,
but a satellite,
careening through the vacuum
pushing the blackness farther
into their pockets
into their sockets
into their hollow mouths
into the crack
of her own tired smirk
Perhaps,
silence is her song for the evening,
not the love of danger
or the glimmer of whiskey
Eyes in,
she wraps her skin
around the moon
She cradles it in her arms
and hums a tune,
through a cigarette.
