┏ʻ ° ⌜永遠に ⌟ ° ∙┓

┗∙ ° ⌜ 永遠に ⌟° ʻ┛

You painted stars in you sleep

swirling w a t e r c o l o r swirls

into the sky that someone else knit for you.

But you,

you wanted to rewrite that sky

you wanted to be your own masterpiece.

As time flowed from critical whispers

from teachers at school to

hours of papers and essays to stargazing

on the rooftop, trying to decipher

the stars through the hazy street lights

and at last, when the clock struck

2:31,

you'd translate the constellations into words

and fill your blue screen.

The world killed you softly but

at night you healed yourself.

Because in your world you

could rotate the galaxies and

reset time and stitch

constellations into the sky with

threads from andromedan

silkworms and with stars for buttons.

You go for orion bikerides and

you wear saturn's rings on your fingers.

Because if you had not the

power to rewrite the stars,

you could rewrite you own song

into your own masterpiece.