Constellations of Want

Sustain yourself with the
clean-smelling petals
as they wrap themselves into the night,
scratching the starry horizon
into constellations of want.

I don't want to see forever, that's absurd, so:
allow for a thick mist to settle,
as if on schedule, a melted snowcap in mind
now turned into a wall of fog
to hide behind when the extroverts
come to steal my energy.

Reliant now on the tingling
sense of the moon,
I need it to predict my tides.
The interconnected muscles
in my chest float flashing moonlit bursts of
my breath into the heavy spring air.

I don't think I have hallucinated
this street,
this sidewalk,
this hill,
those trees,
this comforting fog,
but I have the strange sense
I could have created them
in the moment just before waking
to allow for a walk into the introverted night.