I demand attention, reject it once it’s given, blame you either way, and stare at you like you’ve failed life itself. I stay close, but only on my terms. What am I?

A term that comes for the Greek for milk, I'm kind of a big deal, The milk thing is weird, since if you were coloring me in, the black crayon gets the lion's share of the meal, But from afar, even with the massive size of stars, they appear as little points, of white, or whatever, light, Further away still and a you'll see the spilt milk, right?

I start small, but grow with each pace, A chain reaction, a wilder space, One event sparks, a sequence unfolds, Gaining speed and size, stories told, I could also be cold to the touch, white as can be, A winter's projectile, or a growing spree.

My vines grow in your house A gourd grows on the vine My flowers come in many colours I bloom brightest at night

When the clock's hands embrace in silent unity, a new day peeks through the shadows, heralded only by moonlit whispers and the witching hour's echo.