We are the shattered discards of old stars,
Or the silky innards of white spilled moons.
We are not perfect, but are criss-crossed scars
Dissecting every moment in this room.

I was the pause before you spoke the words,
Eddying towards escape and release.
I was the dark side of your face unstirred,
Turned inside to break each infinite piece.

We are not glass, but sand on skin, grinding
Slowly but constantly over old wounds.
You were the sun brought low, yet still blinding,
To cover up our shadows and surround.

I was the precipice, waiting to fall-
Just a punctured whisper caught in your thrall.