countless stars

And I still taste the golden wisps 

of stardust, dancing across the midnight blue

as tangs of home squeezed grapefruit juice

in the middle of the night. 

And I still hear the 

prayers of those visiting the chapel, 

permeating my childhood nightmares—grandma 

singing me to sleep with her own lullabies 

when I couldn’t on my own. 

And I still touch the lingering 

memory of her southern accent, threatening 

to spiral out of my mind like turbulent eddies escaping 

a storm, at the forever disappearing 

horizon line. 

And I still tuck away her hand-written 

letters imprinting 

loss and grief over everything—the looming darkness 

in the foreground of the painting 

we used to admire 

together.

But I can’t see the song anymore 

drifting in and out of 

darkened windows like the 

empty chapel whose candles and 

prayers 

have long burnt out. 

And I can’t touch the threads of gold weaving in and 

out across the quilted mountains—how 

she once surrounded the crescent moon with a 

halo of life, and has now

surrendered her own existence.

And I can’t taste the golden wisps of stardust struggling to 

supernova beyond their painted forms

like invisible black holes

which suffocate 

the lives of countless stars.

After Starry Night, Vincent Van Gogh