I remember when I was a young child.
I ran around with you and gazed up at the night sky.
Under the dwelling of galaxies, stars, nebulas,
we sat in the tall oak trees, as naive teenagers
waiting for a paint brush to stroke white across the sky.
We waited for the leaves for be strewn on a breeze,
performing a ballet in front of our eyes.
We did this until we was no longer “we” and it was just “I”,
then I cried as the stars looked down in pity.
For now I was no longer a young child nor a teenager
and my feet hurt too much to run.
My hands wrinkled and my hair grayed.
The sun left marks of brown on my once pristine skin.
Every day, after the sun set, I looked at the familiar tired scenes.
The world was my museum
and there was always something new to spectate.
They laughed at me, rolling their eyes.
Those ignorant fools. They knew nothing.
I endured through all these nights, waiting.
One day, I would look up to see the paintbrush picked up once again,
streaking across the sky just for me,
to crown me as the winner of the waiting game.