Cold Stars

I see the table as a photograph
the mattress blackened where I sit and stare  
where the bottle and the wooden chair  
and paper plates and plastic cups had colour once  
where smoke would keep the room in flux  
where we'd stop to watch the cold stars flicker  
and yearn to know their distance, till like they  
we'd shiver in the length and width of it all  
and held on to what little we shared  
as we fell into what awaited us
the thought of how we'd journey back  
if the things we shared would turn to dust  
if the floor on which we had to dance  
was lost—if we reached where I wait for you.