I'm not a good story teller.
I'm just some guy
with flakes of paper
layered with glue for skin.
Brittle purple nails curl like my cats
around my finger and beg for my attention.
I have no attention to give, though,
since I'm simply watching her
and her crystal bones.
I sit under our fake night sky
protected from rain with acid clouds
and murky smog pressing down like a comforter.
We sit under our fake sky
made of sickly white cobwebs
which gather into transparent cliques.
We watch and watch for stars to come,
and they won't,
and while we watch and watch
she withers away
until all I am holding are her crystal bones.