Your cigarette, left smoldering in the sunflower’s pot, reaches those roots & scalds them the way the stars would do to you if they could. We spin below their silent white throbs, trying to attain amnesia through dizziness. It doesn’t work. You decide you’d like another drag of your cigarette, uproot it with dirt still clinging to embers, and suck. I exhale. I’m pretty sure a star has fallen, but I can’t find a hole in the sky for the life of me.