When the daylight fades from sight, from memory
I’ll cherish the depth of the indigo atmosphere
That precedes the flawless obsidian night.
Staring into the endless black, obsessed
With finding meaning in all of this disorder,
In stars seemingly cast in every direction.
But this is what we have always done.
We create constellations out of chaos;
Where there lacks structure, we make it.
Why, then, can I not simply draw the lines
And connect all of my scattered points
That I once struggled to hold inside my hands.