Her hand starts to ache
and it's midnight for Pete's sake.
But there she is,
still wide awake.
She doesn't have any choice.
She thinks it's only
her pen and paper
who can bear her inner voice.
Until the ink formed the words;
Still loving you, Boyce.
YOU ARE READING
Constellation
PoetryHere lies the speck of words orbiting in my own galaxy that was once lost but finally found its own constellation.
