The constellations breathed through the thin purple lines of your veins. One night as we dangled our feet on the edge of your roof, our pale fingers touched as we watched the explosions of the cosmic beauty in the dark skies. You told me to always ask you the reason you lived for the stars whenever I doubted what we had.
Tonight, as the moon painted its body with light yellow, I searched the auroras between your eyes as we surged in a hurricane we created, but as I placed my hand over your chest, I could not hear the echoes of my name—stillness.
I asked you again if everything were still right, but I found the burned lungs and the death of our stars in your breaths instead.
WORD COUNT: 130
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