They are made of stars. Made of celestial beings, ever-present and never failing to make people gape at them in awe. There’s that unwavering need - itching under my skin - of desire to be selfish. To linger my hands on their flawed, moonlit skin. To be able to cup their heavenly face, to be able to peer into their starry eyes up close; I have never kissed a constellation but I would very much like to. Maybe my love for them is planetary and astronomical and maybe all I can do is orbit around them
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 6:34 PM UTC
They are made of stars. Made of celestial beings, ever-present and never failing to make people gape at them in awe. There’s that unwavering need - itching under my skin - of desire to be selfish. To linger my hands on their flawed, moonlit skin. To be able to cup their heavenly face, to be able to peer into their starry eyes up close; I have never kissed a constellation but I would very much like to. Maybe my love for them is planetary and astronomical and maybe all I can do is orbit around them
Request permission to use this poem