fixer

i have been to the cosmos of you;
kicked the habit ragged (rued-in
skin) and ruined us for thirst

well, the empire's sly
pocketing the win-in-concept
knowing aluminum eyes won't pierce the tin-thin veil
he stitched together out of interstellar light

so you still linger
latent image on empty screen,
and i still stare into the distance
pretending not to want to drink the stars