Galaxy of Stars

She's a rocket to the moon, an early April flower;
she dances on Saturn's rings and wonders where you are.

She's a child. She sings of May and she talks of June and she never seems to be intimidated by the weight of heavy nights. The aurora is gone from where you last left her but she nods and points to shooting stars you don't see. You wonder how she can ever deal with the ash-filled moon and then it hit you that she has been carrying Mars on her back all the way to Uranus.

(how long have you been living with one eye closed?)


When it is still early for the sky to become the Neptune-blue you've grown so familiar with, it's white. Like the beginning. She told you nothing ever begins with darkness, not the world, not a dream; you just haven't learned how to see yet. What about the end? You recalled pressing her for answers; you were so confused. What colors would it be then? That, she smiled wryly at you, is when you've shut your eyes and started to forget. You remember you were puzzled, like you are now, and you shook your head and chuckled. She is dreaming beside you and she licks her lips at the taste of Jupiter.

(and dreaming with one eye open; yes, you should be prepared for the unexpected.)


But it was different for you as it was for her. You never cared for lost rabbits on the moon or small red balloons. You were so desperate to get to Venus that you never bothered to look around you. You never noticed that her voice was dipped with Mercury either when she sang or that she could sparkle like Eris if she wanted. It wasn't long after you returned that you began to abandon everything that made you so blissfully happy and advanced for something else.

(and haven't you forgotten something?)


She's alone with Pluto and she wonders how you are;
she'll be alright with the galaxy of stars.

(those are the days when you don't notice she is gone.)