It's lonely to think of a star burning - so far away and un-consoled, breaking silently because sound only exists when it touches our ears. But our souls are older than that when we stare at the canvas of sky. Moist and ebony. The most aged souls, our kindred spirits, they know the skies have ears - deep ones that already know what love sounds like. Controlled and desolate, we can learn, irrationally, dancing against a landscape. Maybe the stars contain our souls, aging them atmospherically, feeding out inspirations. Maybe our souls are made of stars - some humble and melodic, others too close; too bright, or falling fast and hard for a universal benefit. I'll send my soul to this earth, just for you, praying that I'm your wish.
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