With a gaze that strays
outside my bedroom window,
my sullen eyes look toward the sky
that is dark with the shadows of
scarce stars seen from afar—
that make up what is night.

That same old celestial extraterrestrial
pinned down by the evening
looks to me with an earnest glow
that tells me it is listening.

Just beneath my constellation’s destination,
a half moon floats, mouth wide open,
outshining my star; though not far
from each other, they can communicate
in glimmers and shimmers,
across miles of outer space.

And as I creep into sleep,
they watch me with knowing eyes.
We three are made of stardust,
whilst I live and when I die.

Brinn W.