There are stars falling
from the corners of her eyes
and they are burning down the road
she's trying to walk along.
I will pick up all of her fallen stars.
I will repair the ones that broke,
but I will not run from the responsibility.
The edges are sharp,
my hands might bleed out,
but to neglect her fallen constellations
would be almost criminal.
I know she's confused.
A word of advice:
Maybe you should guard your stars
from this world, the next time.
It's easier writing about people who never existed, anyway.
