It has happened
once a year
every twelve years
Stoic years
that have defined the meaning
of my anguish
I had tried to talk to you
Stretch through the
prickled dots
that cloud my sky
just to try to spread into yours
but my movements
they were discarded
You see
stars are fickle possessions
They make you feel
as if you can reach out
and grab them
when people depart
Truth is
They are as far away
as ever in those moments
Those specs of dust
look down on you
in amusement
and they laugh at you
Éloa 
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