I write about stars.
Their fire, their light.

I write about stars because stars are all I know. Burning spheres with their incendiary inclinations, inflammatory hesitations, flammable aspirations.

I only know those who live lives aflame. Those sentient illuminated spots that light the dark are much too far to pierce my dark, but from where I watch, they never move. Since the universe keeps a better record than I do, I can trust their light to guide me through life's nights. I count on them for their truth.

But I would shame the moon for shining a night, block out the stars, whose numbers pale against my scars, and I fight sleep under a thin blanket and darkened skies to prove to myself I don't need their light.