the STARS

The stars eluded you. They slipped around your arms like oily silk. Handprints decorated the glass, their oily imprint expressed something nervous about their absent counterpart. The stars bled through the glass. They kissed the palms of the handprints. You ached but repressed the reason why. The wind would've filled your discomfiture with understanding noise, but the glass was in the way. The glass with the oily handprints was in the way of the consoling wind. And the stars glittered through the palms of someone who wasn't present.