"Starry Night"

Some nights, when the sill gets lonely,

I lay my chin upon its chest.

I breathe slow, like the rise and fall,

of the moth under the streetlamp.

I rest my forehead against the screen,

And let my lips push against the cold divider.

The sky is violet, while the stars burn yellow.

I wonder if this is what the starry night really looks like?

I wonder if Van Gogh would paint me…

In the window of the tall churning tree.

Watching the moth flutter under the golden halo,

As I kiss the screen.