'and' was a continuation
and so you loved that word and hated endings
and you let your fingers weave the word over and over,
(delicate hands pressing them into your skin
as if to ensure your immortality,
push away whatever time wanted you to be, but the sun rose and set
and nights were only dank reminders of morrows after)
and besides you seemed quite tired as if you'd been holding the stars
in your arms for far too long
and they didn't even bother to shine for you
you look like loneliness has taken its toll
and your legs, weary with time, couldn't hold you anymore
and let your body collide with stardust
and the tips of your hair brushed the page that teemed with life,
that filled with doodles and words and and and and and and
you look like 'and' has taken its toll
and your eyes were dark and sunken, empty black abysses, eclipses
that stole the sun
and your lips were chapped and cracked, a jagged strip of the Milky Way
and your cheeks grayed and faded, stars that had lost their shine
and your stomach caved in on itself to let your rip cage and hip bones protrude (because it loved them both but they were too infatuated by your skin and clung to it like it was life after an ending)
and your skin was a painting, a Starry Night, and you were Van Gogh
(except you carved with knife and colored your blue skies with red stars)
and your eyelids were drooping, full moons falling into perfect crescents
and your lungs were containers without air,
galaxies without solar systems
you look like you're dying
and your fake smiles and midnight tears were like meteorites in the sky,
they were like comets, falling, falling, falling,
falling from home,
falling towards stone cold ground.
and the saddest part was,
*they never got back up.
All stars die.
