Poetry

21:11

You are perfect, so beautiful
In every distorted, infinite way

You hold mysteries of years
Beyond imagination
And you are a blanket
Of secret holes

You are for the most part
Distant, shining from afar

Yet when you are at your closest
And I consider reaching out
To brush my fingertips along your brow

I stop myself every time, without fail
For fear of disturbing
One single star.

 

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