I told the stars about you,
Crouched down in my bed, as I clasped my hands together,
I whispered it to the sky,
But it never whispered back.
I told them you had outshone them,
How they would fail to burn as bright as you.
I told them, how the fire you held inside,
Warmed my glazed fingertips,
I warned them about you.
About the cold dagger that you spun inside me.
I used to treasure it, that feeling of the silver sliver,
Of your tainted frozen knife,
It carved joy into my grey tedious soul,
I used to indulge in that pain.
But now it seems the stars have become you.
And your fire no longer burns.
A gravestone cold and bland,
Reminds me of you.
I told the stars about you,
I told them to bring you back.
The morning comes, the stars and you long forgotten,
A relic in the sky.
-Tess Barbey
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