Take Me Too.


I get lost in the stars. I stare up at the sky for so long at night that I have come to the point where I can picture one in my hand, illuminating my face with a cold glow. I start to wonder how many times the one in my hand would have been wished upon and how many times it had to whisper to children that there we’re some things it just can’t fix. I want to know how many decades its looked down on the earth and how many stories it could tell me about watching other stars burn out, and even it’s on fear of dying. Would it sit still in my hand or would it be restless from sitting in the sky for so long? Would it tickle, and what would it smell like? If I had to guess it would smell like lavender and honey mixed with powdered sugar. But I wouldn’t want to hold on to it, I would kiss it and raise it above my head with both hands cupped so that it could freely head back out into the universe. And I think I would shed a tear because I’ve always wanted to go with it.


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