Stories About Ourselves

Blue Christmas lights
tell us stories about ourselves
I saw you biting yours nails
through a pane of glass in that restaurant
late night conversations when
you told me there were no stars
just satellites

And I lay down in the shirt you used
as a towel when there were none
left and that the stars were a felt
blanket draped over tabletops of a
smoke seeping factory (?) gestures

Bent puzzle pieces we are
small cities tall buildings
this glass flipper is giving me blisters
now
I'd prefer not