The mountains don’t glow like magic
anymore- they’re just dark shadows
of dust and despair, and I miss the way
they sang each night. Their song
was your song, and yours, mine.
I miss the way its tune matched the
beating in my tiny chest.
I watch as you ascend above the range
like a ghost floating toward its forgotten
lover, reach out illuminated fingers, and
place stars in my eyes- they haven’t
been dry in months.
If I could fly, I’d paint galaxies in your
craters. And if you were here, you’d tell me
you’re already part of a starry cluster. But
what good is knowing you belong to something
so large when the real magic
has lived within you from the beginning?
I hope you know you are brighter than them all.
I hope you know how much you’re worth.