it’s my harpsichord

and i’ll drag it through the dried up mud

whenever I want to

Remembering when I held a star in my hand

and I told someone I loved about it

and they wouldn’t even look at it

Remembering when I put frills around their insults

so I could still hold them in my hand

because they were stars to me

now turned into mud

that I shouldn’t have guarded

So let me ignore the pretty weed sprouts that grow

out of their cracks

from time to time

I promise to admire them still sometimes.

The flowers are beautiful

they drape my fears with petals

but they are not my friends

they are indifferent to me.

The birds are wonderful

their songs fill my anxieties with hope

but they are not my friends

they are indifferent to me.