5/4

a brief
and slightly tangled
history
of shooting stars:

wishes,
fingers grasping
vaguely at
shimmering gossamer strands,
tangled among heartstrings,
not one of them
entirely making sense

she,
he,
his,
hers,

happy endings and castles
floating out
somewhere
anywhere but here

theirs,

a couple of gilded pages
neatly tied away,
closed and bound perhaps, yet
as free
as any of those stars