raw.

The sky crumbles around our heads.

You watch as the blues and blacks morph into

a strange combination

and I reach my curious hand out to catch a star or two.

You whisper that you expected it to be different,

more tragic, more romantic.

“But it’s not,” I say. “It just is what it is.”

The stars in my palm begin to burn,

and I release them.

They fall with a jingle from my freshly raw flesh.