Writing Journal #65

I have a galaxy on my finger. Waiting to throw constellations from the sunlight. 
All because you wanted me.
Because I was more to you than a set of tragedies and dreams. 
I was the stars on dark nights, with more points of light than you could count. But you'd spend the rest of your days learning the name of each drop of light, the rest of your precious minutes naming the unknown.
You would see the patterns where everyone else saw only scattered light. 

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