I.
Yesterday I watched as you twirled
through space,
Igniting asteroids with your fiery glow, spinning Saturn’s rings with your fierce passion for the things you love.
You nimbly avoided the supernovas while intertwining with stars, granting sparkling wishes that no one knew had a catch.
Like the pied piper, they flocked to you, always eager to know the brightest, the best, the most magnificent, and you lured them in, a black hole under the guise of a friendly dancing shadow.
You let them think they would frolic beside you, tiptoeing across the comet tails. You let them think floating above the earth would be easy. You let them think air was optional, and they forgot to breathe.

II.
Anti-gravity boys and weighted down girls barely balance each other enough to dance in the sky. One flies and one falls, magnets repelling each other to opposite directions, opposite worlds. Never to be together, they are like a forbidden love, but one with no starlight star bright ending.
No wish can defeat gravity’s intents, and no soul leaping above the airplanes will ever fall enough to kiss the earth.

III.
My mother always warned me of the ones who track stardust on the carpet. I’m still cleaning your foot prints off of my
bedroom floor.

IV.
Last night I found you, somewhere between Ursa Major and the Little Dipper. The constellations dimmed in comparison to the way you seem to shine. I tell myself I’ll find a way to fly, but as of now I am tied to a terrestrial prison, built from the bones of well-meant warnings. They keep me from reaching for what I want to believe is a starlight lullaby, a sunshine fairy tale, a shimmering astronomical adventure, but what I know is only black.