us, and the stars

are scratches
on the night’s skin,
cold as blades
of grass
and wet
as lips.

They do not
change.
They move,
hung in constellations
given sense by
the myths
we create
here,

not real
except now,
spoken and impossible.
We try to reach
but can never.

Instead,
our words,
hard as light,
surrounded by nothing,

touch each other,
hidden by clouds.