There is a blanket of quiet deadening the streets. A haze you’ve felt that lingers just long enough to make you stir. Don’t be afraid. She isn’t just another girl.
Star-people come out in wisps that bend the light. They fraction what you always thought and warp the very night.
They are more primitive than mountain breezes, sacred to the Earth, and they always end up leaving.
They don’t shy away from jagged edges or broken threads but they hum them into stitches. Star-people mend the souls we thought too fractured for fixes.
In barefoot nights she reflects the light and everything is quiet. She’s a canvas for your mind that you splatter and stroke and your brushes only make her brighter.
You can find her whispers only on the wind when she blows away. Her canvas more painted, more earth shattering, every single day.
She always blows away.