Morning glory

Sickle in the sky

I toe the line for you.

One star, gut already busted,

swells silently beside it.

Air cold. Sky clear and soft

like a pillow you want to lay

your face on but won’t

because creasing such perfection

would be unforgivable.

For one night a year

they have each other;

beauty is fleeting

yet the memory eternal.

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