I wonder at what point it was okay for me to say, I just miss the stars. There's this empty smoggy blanket over us and as much as I want to love you, your large and beautiful hands could never pick the stars from the skies back home. For a while it was just us, I'll always have this image of you with your furrowed brow, leaning over a desk and pushing papers, pushing and pushing until they fell off the desk.
You are my stars that never twinkle, burning up, distant and unreachable. I never followed science and you never sang nursery rhymes. We wanted our little person to be looking up at the twinkling stars and the moon, bright and close. Yet here I am, your moon, infertile and cold. All I feel from up here is every millionth mile. While I lay on the edge of our king sized bed all I see are the galaxies between us and I have no hands to touch you, no mouth to scream to you. From your turned back there's only a sliver of light reflecting years gone by.
I wonder if it was okay to miss the