You were an oracle of colours.
To me, my eyes, my imagination.
The further you went, the more you resembled a star.
And we were still connected by a straight line.
Holding us together when everything went dark.
I would pull and you felt it.
The shooting star.
Traveling from afar.
To reach your door.
And I can’t see you.
But the rope is held. Tightly.
Never could it drop.
I keep it up.
It might have become invisible to anyone but us.
They are blind to my shooting star.
The rope, with you on the other end, always.
No matter what the world says.
Nobody will replace your exact position in the night sky.
Nobody can walk that way, find me and what united us.
It’s a story told by us, we distributed them all in the air.
And I’m breathing, I’m breathing you in.
And you are whole.
“The Golden Rays” by Herbert James Draper (1863-1920)