sometimes the stars look like exit wounds in the sky.
bullets,
punctured through the abyss of darkness.
they were pure, innocent souls; slashed down.
their inner light bleeds through;
trickles out in rays through the sea of tar,
until the entire night is freckled by their memory.
their silence.
we call it beauty,
but it is really grief gracefully endured;
stitched into the heavens so we may never forget.
i love stars