in the night of stars

There is paint everywhere. The moon has cracked into hundreds of yellows and if you squint, you’ll see stars bleeding out from its satellite. How many nights have you wandered beneath? Miles of rain, stretched out into measurable puddles, can never wash away what once was. And bodies swirl too just like this acrylic resin. We are removing and gaining new parts just like Van Gogh. He wrote letters too. When the evening slips behind a new day, all that glow that got you looking away from your dark, remains. Like love.

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