And those stars explode
into plumes of oil paint
and peacock feathers.
They fall into the shape of your face
and tumble the fathomless depths
of all of the countless questions
whose answers make a difference
in this indifferent world.
Stars burn through their existence
and are reborn by the friction
of desperately wanting.
They have left corresponding ancient symbols
of passion and loyalty
at the bases of our hearts.
Their celestial tides
wash over our fragile footprints
and tattoo the skin of our souls.
Together, we go sailing
on unspoken promises
through newborn stars
behind the low hanging full moon.
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