The stories we tell about ourselves
hang like stars in the night sky
infinite, glowing bright,
until they wheel onward, unseen
to the other side of consciousness
returning one day with memories uncovered
for people new to us to greet

What stories do you weave about yourself
which constellations do you show which story do you leave hidden, silent
to wish upon like evening’s first star?

We control the setting
paint our truths across the splash of night
and leave our thoughts about our own dark-sky corners
for solitude’s consideration
sharing only on those special nights
when a bright conjunction is framed by twilight blue
when the pinpricks align
and the crescent pauses in the sunset sky
when a twinkling streaks across indigo
flashing for a moment before it disappears
when wonder and intimacy overcome fear and doubt
when, in colonizing another – their skin, their eyes, their heart –
we bare all.


2 thoughts on “Autobiography

  1. So much loveliness here, and thoughtfulness. I feel as if you are examining the question from different angles, as we might see different shapes in the stars depending on the moment. The stars and the storytelling give this a wonderful timelessness and mystic quality.

    • Thank you! That’s a good summary of how I was feeling I think. I’ve been working long hours and it’s lots of thinking, so very little time to make it over here. Nice to find this comment 🙂

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