Ask me to come down
As if I had a choice
Shooting stars are space debris
Mostly falls into the ocean
That's where most Earth trash ends up too
A composition of detritus and coincidence
Some interstellar lazy art project
Perched precarious, craning to see further
Allowing myself to enjoy every sunset
With no expectations
It's not hope, exactly
It's not as if I had a choice
Except, if I did, I suspect I'd be perched here anyway
Shooting stars strike the Earth every day
Seems like nobody ever gets hit
Okay maybe a couple people have
But it's not us
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