The Moon is a puller you are the hand of a ghost Cut the spilling wordsong so that My pen cauterizes with the morning breath Bleeding hearts in bloom Your cursive curving shadow is enough to make yourself alive You know that it's not too late to make something real But it might be too soon to stop reaching And out in the distance I can see a small blue light Getting bigger all the time, when the shadows in my room stop Hanging around, I'll be waiting there with this grounding unworldliness knowing that not knowing is better than waiting cinematically