Stories regarding half-eaten stars. Myths of your meaning to me and the touch of your fingers on my chin. Shadows of shadows. Flashing lights and the echoes of your cries as you curl into a ball at 4 am all alone and so close to the other side. Does anyone know the difference between the woman you are and the girl they see? Or is it the other way around? Mirrors. Shapes. Letters written through a flood of tears as the ghosts of what you once knew peer over your shoulder whispering so sweetly into your ear. They know what makes you itch, and with each kiss, they bring it a little closer. Open the bottle. Light a smoke. Inspect the pieces of who you used to be and compare them to the one who gazes back at you above the bathroom sink. Cut your hair. Scrub your skin. Witness the change. Observe the transformation from one lover to the next. Each tear that drops into the basin is a doorway to a train of thought- each intake of breath a key to such door. Relics. Survivors. Soft machines with souls that glow in silence far from the merciless crowd.