in a silent house, wakefulness
is our cloak of invisibility

so we listen to the gossamer touch
of our feet on the linoleum floor
echo like a shared secret
and we step out into the lavender
haze of 2 AM.

i once wanted to tell the future
but every prophecy only whispers:
yes, it will hurt

i can already see this moment
through future nostalgia
wrapped in the summer sky
i know even this is apocalyptic

but you, with your chameleon skin
i can’t tell where the stars end
and we begin.