You've heard it all a hundred times before,

"You are made of dead stars",
"You are the universe that rebuilt itself into something that can experience it's own beauty."

I, on the other hand, long to return.
I want to go to my place of origin,
my real home.

The light and plasma would hold me firmly,
And I'd never be the same I'm sure.

If only the stars contained me.

We laid in the soft grass for a while.
The wind blew steadily.
With the moon illuminating us from afar.

You chuckled, thinking about the silly idea of
counting all the pretty lights above us.
All the stars, adding them up by hand.

I laughed too,
of course I did.

I loved the stars and nightsky too,
of course I did.

But while you busied yourself with the absurd prospect of
counting all the stars,

I'd rather admire you, and busy myself with
counting all the freckles on your face.

When the cold of solitude feels more like home than the warmth of a hug,
and the force of regret leads to
shattered glass and bleeding cuts,

I know something is not quite right,
but I can never seem to put my finger on it.

I feel like I have my own guardian angel
that only wants the worst for me.

He dances around the fine print in his contract,
letting me suffer when it's crippling
//but not fatal//

You could be great;
Even bigger and stronger than in your dreams,
someone to hold onto,
but instead whenever someone reaches out,
even the softest touch would break away a piece of you.

You're brittle.

Every piece you lose to someone, makes you crumble a little more.
A self destructive parting gift.

Even those you know to be undeserving of it, get a piece.

How long until there is nothing left of you?