Stab the Skies

Simply said, my dear, stars cannot punch skies but stab with little pin size tears- a blue-black canvas painted with suns’ demise. Color of dark spawning our fears. Light seeps into streets, from yellow windows. Our footsteps soft, yet hurried, tonight. Skylines streaked silver crash cymbals so piercing they could wound those buried. Yet this spring night drapes over our old hearts beating, yours a gold gem when I press my lips to your breath. Light rain starts- I envision summers, rose sunsets.