They were all simply made of stardust: of celestial dust and remnants of supernovae. That was all any human was. But the skin, bone and celestial dust that made him up combined to form something positively arresting. He was an explosion of feeling and passion, a plethora of silent yearnings and whispered wishes. There was something sad about him, something in the slump of his shoulders and the melancholy deep in his eyes, that suggested he was more broken than anyone knew. There was also something in him that, at times, made him appear so jovial, so blithe. Both because and despite all of this, he was a wonder to look upon. It was an inexplicable, incomprehensible, paradoxical kind of pulchritude. From the soft fluttering of his eyelids to the upward quirk of his lips, he was heart-wrenchingly, breathtakingly aesthetic; all at once, he was completely exhilarating, tantalizing, intoxicating.
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PoésieThis is a collection of poetry and prose about stars, love and the like. It is a glimpse inside my mind and a full view of my soul. My thoughts are like celestial dust: quite useless on their own, but once they come together, create a star that give...
