I have always been too much.
My thoughts were too loud,
my nose too big,
my dreams too far.
If I had reached for a closer star, perhaps the sun,
maybe then I would have touched it,
instead of yearning for constellations millions of light-years away.
I’m not used to the stars.
In a city with a sky clouded with pollution for 13 years, 
stars are a recent phenomenon.
Every time I look up,
I cry.
The concept is still so distant to me,
balls of light pinprick the darkness of the above.
I’m left staring at possibility.

My goal is to write something beautiful and simple,
to be beautiful and simple.
I wished I savored moments like these with people like you,
and now all I am is left on your doorstep, knocking at an empty house,
calling out to ghosts.

I depended upon 
 music in the rearview 
 a book in my tote bag 
 a car ride into the city 
 the thump of my beating heart 
 a shoulder touch from a friend 
 quiet moments, when the world goes silent.

When the streetcar runs by the cafe, 
I look up to see it go by, 
then notice strangers staring at me in the corner,
typing with ferocity as inspirations flow from every corner.