Mirage.

and I'll stop.

Oh, the derangement of the mind and how it finds airplanes and dimly lit cigarettes in fairy lights that are out there to celebrate overwhelming conquests of the dark. To flicker in and out of existence, like tears blinking at eyelids after that first fit of cough that serves harshly beautiful disillusionment.
I will write you flimsy poetry in the flames of the wars we have fought to show how utterly useless being at fault is. And, so we watch the green light and call ourselves Gatsby, because that's how all of the lights feel like; unrequited.

So, tell me it's a mistake and I'll stop, as I do while recalling my favorite lover I can't talk about when it's half-past noon, because the sun is too bright and acknowledgement of names makes it too real for my fragile lips, so swollen at trials of forgetting something so voyeuristic like the lights which flutter like bats blinded in the night.

There's no reconciliation of all the lights in all these cities, and my old friend talks about colours we bleed when we bleed love, but I've only been bleeding regret out of tongues you have sliced open.
And, to find the salt in the blood and in my fingertips while cheap vodka keeps me company, I can only call these lights a replacement of all the blinking airplanes in the midnight misadventures of homesickness. And, I can only call you when i don't know who else to turn to. But, I can't call out your name which I only see in darkness. Let these lights hide you from me, I don't want to remember you. So, tell me it's a mistake and I'll stop. I'll stop like the lights do, when no one's watching. No one watches apart from familiar melodies of jazz because, I am someone who only plays blues.
Tell me it's a mistake, and I'll stop.