When the stars fall, then do they fall to you?
Do you collect them in your room, in your fists?
And is your blood red like ours,
or a string of lyrics, if you opened your vein?
The scar, the recipe for spring.
Your hesitations reinvent color.
Your choices taste like fireworks.
Your whispers, the ghosts of philosophers,
the ones who spoke truth as best they knew how.