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.


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