existence.

"Sad stuff makes beautiful poetry, but it's not so pretty to live with." [-Merecat]
*For the Dear Diary Competition*
(I recommend anything beyond 'Tumbling Ash' for the rest is a mess of nonsense words that hold no character, no story and absently fill the page)

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62. Grabbing Stars

 

I want to hold the heavens.

 

I lie on my trampoline in a starfish formation with my hair wild

and my eyes reflecting the shimmers of over-head planes.

 

I stretch out my hand,

so white and pale against the submerging ink of the night and stare

at the silver glow of the moon that seems

half-cut today,

like it has been sliced with a knife or concealed within a blanket.

 

I wonder what it is like to hold a star.

To grasp the velvet fabric of the sky and feel each fibre on my fingertips,

to drag and tip a little golden ball into my palm and

wrap my fingers around it as if it were a shard of fragile glass.

 

I would admire it's beauty,

the way its fire dances with auburn colours and how it seems

to illuminate the crevices of my face that hide within the shadows of the day.

 

Perhaps,

instead of raising my hands in a distant hope of grasping the stars,

I will grow wings.

 

Not vast, feathered wings that beat white like snow and sprout

abnormally from your back

but instead transparent, glittering wings that sparkle in the light

and dance in the dark.

 

They would shine gold and rose and crimson,

they would flap with a soft whisper and soar with a gentle scream,

they would merge with the darkness and stand bold from the shadows,

they would take me so high I could forever clutch the

black velvet of the sky

and I could lie on the lavender-tinted clouds.

 

But,

I am not lying on clouds.

I am lying on a trampoline in a starfish formation with my hair wild

and my eyes reflecting the shimmers of over-head planes.

 

The stars glitter like wings and the moon drapes itself in the fabric of the night

and I feel the tears begin a steady flow.

 

-12th September 2015

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