to call you a star would have been insulting in a sky full of identical tiny little lights, we don’t even notice when one goes out.
you were a constellation, a group of tiny specks that I searched for because I like the pattern they made. where everything else was scattered and erratic, you made sense. a perfect arrangement of pieces that made up a beautiful whole.
they say old habits die hard.
so this is me, looking up at the sky, my eyes finding you automatically, effortlessly, accidentally, and hoping that they die at all.