little things

it’s the little things.
that make up a portrait.
even angels are made of atoms.
the beauty of a night sky,
contrary to belief
in something greater out of less.
the sum of the parts –
your eyes,
your mouth,
your ears,
your lips,

something i can’t understand,
someone –
at least I pretend.
against a black canvas,
your soul is painted white;
the ship approaches,
landing soon,

i’d burn up in the stratosphere,
to make a shooting star for you.

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