summer pushes at the night sky, golden fingertips clinging to the light for as long as they can keep a steady grip, but even at 12am when the moon has won what little war was waged and taken her place i still don’t look at the stars.
it’s an easy thing, to open a window, to step outside.
to tilt your head back and breathe in the breeze that whistles unseen through the trees. the sky speaks in a language only the earth learned and i used to trace the words when they came with the rain but now even storms are silent.
i haven’t looked at the stars in a month and i miss them.