Sometimes I look outside at night. Count the stars. It makes me wonder. What if every star is a dead soul who didn't seem to find out how to shine. Sometimesh u I count the cars that pass by. Some red, some blue.
The night sky is where I want to shine when I die. Meaning that there will always be a piece of me in the world. Maybe some day, somewhere. People will look up and say hour how beautiful of a star I am.
I'm not as scared as night as I should be. Everything seems awake. Every animal that hides from day, awakens itself at night.
Night is best for thinking. Sometimes I think about the time I was so close to holding hands with death. I could see his face. A face welcoming and friendly, a heart so solitary and forgotten. Maybe that's why he takes lives. He's so forgotten that he wants people to stay with him forever. I remember the look on his face when I let go of his hand. I remember the race of my heart verses my lungs. My heart almost lost. I remember what was going to be my last breath. My last beat. My last sight of the world.
This would be a total different story if I kept hold of his hand. The hand so pure. Long but clean nails. Not a speck of dirt to be seen. Fingers so perfect that a model would die for them. The palm of his hand was strangest. It had no lines at all. It was just clear. The type of clear you'd see in marble flooring. So smooth even a thorn couldn't scratch it.
