She took my hand,
that lonely little child.
Her eyes asked me a question
for which I had no answer.
I could count her young fingers
without looking for
she gripped so tight.
What could I possibly say?

The taller she got,
the more frequently
she let go and
disregarded me.
I can't blame her
for those latent
hateful tendencies.
Still, she would come back,
and every time her hand
was just a little bigger,
just a little stronger.

It was inevitable and utterly
unavoidable,
but it still surprised me.
The sky fell apart
and showered her with
woeful cries and broken dreams.
The tragic beauty of
shattering reality
took my breath away.
She let go of me,
but this time,
she shoved me hard
into the black shadows
of her nightmares,
a permanent enemy
of her innocent undertakings.

I watched her from the
corners of her subconscious,
waiting for her to look at me.
She ran like the devil
was hot on her heels,
but she was never afraid.
She burned like fire,
a bright star scorching
the night and she was
beautiful.

The longer she burned,
the more I feared
she would sputter and
die.
I waited for her,
ready to share my tears
with only her.

Then she fell,
and she is still there,
there before me.

She is an unconscious huddle,
a pile of glowing flesh and bone.
I notice how she is more
like a woman
than any other woman
I've ever seen.

The ashes begin to fall,
gray snowflakes
drifting over her,
the drab attempt
to bring her back to earth.
And she has fallen --
quite literally --
for the dusty act.
She does not say anything.
I weep as the inevitable engulfs her,
that once child,
still lonely.

I wait for the darkness.
Soon, there will be
no light peeking through
her soft confinement.

But it's only getting
brighter.

I look carefully,
and I am overwhelmed --
overjoyed--
as she burns like stars
buried in the ash
of the universe's shortcomings.