Morning light is harsh

Morning light is harsh.

Your cracks, full of depth under the moonlight

borrowed their complexity from the stars.

Now I see they were simple mirrors,

far from black holes, deep ponds of celestial dust.

I thought I loved you,

seeing the comets seeping through your scars like sap.

You just mirrored mine.

It was me who filled you with stars.

The constellations I saw in your skin

are nothing more than pigment specks

prosaically sprawled on your milky back.

I can no longer coat your pretentiousness in metaphors -

I am tired of you.

What was enough by the candlelight

cannot compare to the glow of northern lights.

The gravity of you is suffocating.

The raspberry smell of the universe
fouled by the stench of you.

Your insecurities smell of misguided pomposity,

stale cigarettes, desperation and rotting fruit.

Your thinly veiled shallowness engages nothing more

but my gagging reflex.

Morning light is harsh.

The blurred edges of your words

mellow in the night

cut sharp like daggers
with the first light.