sjsprWriting

"It got too hard to care," you said. And I would've broken off a pane of sky for you. I would've cut stars from soup cans until my fingers were trembling.

I had asked if you could see stars from the city, and you answered "probably not." Yet, still, I would've continued to make them. Shape their ugly metal because it is all I know, all I am-- gritty-beautiful in the way of chapped lips and dirty fingernails, ragged breaths and soft heartbeats.

For you, I would've strung out the stars until all the clocks in the world were gone.

(You're gone.)