when the November winds bite at your cheeks

and you gaze at the darkness above, 

as if it's the dried well

you call a 'heart'

did you ever notice—

how the night reveals itself slowly

painstakingly so

how those asterisms

you know so well

emerge silently, on cat-like feet

how difficult can it be

to see things right in front of you? 

how long can it take, really

just to simply connect dots? 

"how can you be so slow," they ask you, 

"on a task so simple?

how come the others do things tirelessly, 

and you don't?"

"maybe there's something wrong with you,"

they announce. 

"there's something wrong with me,"

you declare. 

but oh my darling, don't you see? 

the way you trust your eyes

every other dark night

while you could've easily turned away

shut your little hope, and let the tears stay

but every beautiful thing takes time

and your eyes, they adjust to the dark, eventually

and the night, it turns bright, eventually

and everything, it all makes sense, eventually