Going Native

A million stars fall from the sky,
every time you notice me.
Like the flash of a camera going off,
its beams piercing through,
their X-ray vision dissecting me,
making up your mind in public,
while you propose I decline.

A million stars fall from the sky,
every time you hold out your hand.
I hold the rails firmly as I descend in to your well.
You moved here long ago and never came back.
Just a quick visit you once said,
But I think, after all these years,
You have gone native.

E. Saglamer