I one day caught a star in the night’s sky.
with a crooked finger I pulled it through the clouds it called home
only to use it as light for my writing.
on the desk a moth landed on my new star
left a light dusting of itself on the star’s skin, giving off smoke.
I knocked over a cup of pencils and pens to swipe at it
the smell of the moth’s legs kindling on the star
turned my stomach every which way. my heart sat bone-caged above
worse for the wear, I’m afraid, rabbiting about
my star bitterly melted the cap of a spilled pen, and I
watched the moth burn in the molten plastic as it pooled around it.
I returned the star to its home in the clouds. I wrote by the light of this burning moth
I used the pen it died in. I wrote of the star it died for.
its short life smothered, and all for the glow of a stolen star.