I'm asking for permission to be stardust.
From the toilet seat,
drinking a rum and coke at
12:47 pm
Mac yelled at me to
“Write drunk
edit sober”
while typing his own
paper of feigned, poised
elegance from slurred words.
Broken star bits dripped from
his numbed lips as I
gathered them into
the palm of my hand.
“Also I need toilet paper.”
Marissa held my hand,
as stars poured out from her esophagus onto the sidewalk,
the cement now shimmering with cosmetic glitter and vodka.
A tiny little universe
right there on the concrete beneath us.
“You’re a drunk bitch, too” she yelled
through unfocused eyes,
but still
I’ve never loved anyone more.
Sometimes I feel small.
My entire life is insignificant
moment after moment
I attempt to draw
meaning from.
Within a greater
sky of stars I am
one small speck
of stardust.
But in my cosmic insignificance
I know that the stars
look small,
too
from a distance.
