Star, Dimmed

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You once combed through the stars

until you found my face, then gently

cupped it in your lavender hands,

blowing warm air until flowers

blossomed beneath my eyes.

Arms akimbo, you stood stoically,

stark against the softness of

a muted summer night, waiting

until I extricated myself from

the earth’s grip, swaying with

vertigo and dizzily fluttering down.

Your hands, planks of fingered oak,

lay waiting as I fell.

I hazily brushed one fingertip

and it, along with you,


as did I.

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