happy birthday

The bench is cold,
like the night,
maybe colder.
I raise my head,
exhale,
the cicadas
grow quiet
and surprise me.
The night sky
is not empty
but it is lonely.
This young poet,
whether fake or true,
is growing older –
dreams of the myriad
colours of the evening sky
are slowly
being pushed away
by a fascination
for the cold desolation
of the clear night sky.