By Natalie Struble

The stars have always forgotten to soften their beauty in the gaze of our primitive beings.

The ghost of silver gauzy starlight dusting constellations into my skin stings.

Cosmos swirling in a haze of silver, gold, and colors not yet seen in eyes blinded by mortality.

We’re a disorder of gossamer daydreams and shooting stars and I can’t seem to keep up with the speed in which I fall in love with every dying nova and collapsing star because they shall always be more beautiful than I can ever hope to imagine.

They are the very breath of God, life and death, fate and free will, beginnings, ends, and every moment in between.

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