Were Most of Your Stars Out?

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That night we were star gazing,

and when I picked out my favourite diamond in the sky,

you told me how they were all dead. 

That the ones my eyes could discern were nothing but shadows of a twinkling past.

And I searched in your eyes the sadness I felt within. 

I wished you told me that night, that in exactly eighty-nine days, you would leave, and I would stop looking at stars altogether.

I wished you told me that night, that we have stars inside too, and sometimes when a white shot of pain tears you up in fragments, a few stars start dying.

I wished you told me that night that you had carefully set your stars apart just so that they do not mingle with mine.

I wished you told me that night that in the death of the stars, our death was written too.


April 12, 2015

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