1. Starlight

I used to be in love with the sky.

I’d lay out on the grass and

watch the world come alive,

stay out late until twilight overcame

the blinking sun

and the rolling clouds sprouted fire

as they made way for the

moon waxing lamplight poetry

across the shadows.

I’d chase after fireflies and catch them in filtered jars,

watched as their glow casted catalysts

of starlight across

my bedroom walls

I think I loved stars most of all.

There’s was something so big about things

that looked so small,

I never quite understood why

stars only made their home

when the night filtered like cigarette smoke through

the tree branches of my backyard.

Did they like ot better when the only light to rival them was the

yellow light that flickers

hazy fluorescent glows across a damp porch

did they

only choose to shine when

you couldn’t see anything else

at all.

I know better now.

I used to call contrails

shooting stars,

saw a streak across the sky and made a wish all my own

I never really wished for anything,

but the sentiment was there

when I closed my eyes and

held my hands clasped together in front of me

I used to think stars were magic

maybe they still are.

I once heard that almost every star we see is already dead that

we’re looking into the past of something

we’d never experienced

that it’s just a memory

a fragment of life

traveled so many light years

to finally reach us



I wonder how it feels to be

nothing more than an imprint,

to have one peice of you travel millions of millenia

to be heard only once you are gone.

will I only be heard when I’m gone?

I wonder how the stars feel

looking over an expanse of nothing

but where their own light can touch,

do they see more than I?

I think I know how they feel.

Do they know how they feel?

There’s something melancholic

about about a clockwork machine of worth

everything is more when you’re gone.

Maybe it’s knowing there will never be another.

another chance

There’s a billion people

and an infinity amount more of stars

and we’re nothing more than carbon-copy cogs from far away

every star looks the same from where we see it.

I wonder if they’re as complex as we are

hidden between smiles and stardust

everything we know about them feels like we’re just guessing.

I never realised how much stars feel like people

and maybe that’s why I loved them so much.

I never realised

How little we know

until it was 3am and I was watching constellations flit shadows

across my bedroom ceiling

are they dead when I see them

am I nothing but a memory of something more

am I nothing but wasted potential

I read starlight like hieroglyphics

as it shines through my bedroom curtains

and cast candlelight across the walls of my room.

I don't know why it matters -

maybe it never did,

maybe the only importance is

that the stars were alive somewhere

and I'm alive here,

at home in a room where the stars cannot see me,

where I cannot see them.

I used to be in love with the sky,

and I think that's just an extension of

whatever wonder I held for myself.

I was told once that almost every star we see is already dead and

I don’t know if that's true.


Our sun is alive,

and I think that counts for something.

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