Out-Wandered

The stars are unaware of our meager existence 
Here in this plane  
In this realm 
All at once lying in a bed of soft, cushioned comfort
It does not matter if we, plural, you and I
Last a day, a month, a year

We teeter-totter on the edge of existing in this sweet manner
The children of rapture engulfed in bitter knowing-
Bitter joy that if all else fails
Our downfalls together will make for a few poems-
A few glimpses of art photographed into the pages

But for this hour in waking
Within the womb of sheets
Staring breathless, back tired against the wall
I will let you rest between the silent strokes of my pencil
For a chance to follow the meandering universe
Wasted and out-wandered
Amongst the myriad of arm-reaching stars