The sky never gets dark here,
Not really.
It glows a sickly spectrum all its own--
--the yellowed pallor of your unslept face under aging incandescent light,
The deep caramel gold of a city glittering with promises,
The surreal mauve of the bruises it left on you when those promises were not to be.
The haze hides the stars from us--or us from them?
Better, perhaps, that they overlook this foolish display,
A pale facsimile of the galaxies of untold eons,
Spattered into being in a single cosmic instant of hubris.
What erroneous constellations we have made on this backdrop
Of hues upon hues projected bright enough to write by
In the unquiet dead of night.