echoes | poetry | wattys2018

114

i used
to hate
the stars,
every night,
i kept on
waiting for
them to
come up,
sit beside
the moon,
talk to me.
but they
never came.

then,
as i sit on
this hill,
watching
the dark
shade of
black and
blues,
with nothing
besides the moon,
her head
leans over
my shoulder.
it was the
best star
i could
ever see.

—shooting stars