Catching Stars with Nooses


“We’re catching stars with nooses,” she whispered with her head tucked neatly under his chin like a bird.

He slowly kissed her forehead as if his kiss were a thought stuck in mollases. His eyes remained fixed on the infinite skies, pupils searching those inky horizons seeping like tea above them, scanning for shooting stars to make wishes walk the earth as mortals.

“Why do you say that?” He pecked at her head, an affable chicken of affection.

She looked hard at the sky, nose scrunched as if she’d been slow chewing on a thought. “Well,” she said, as if that explaimed it all. She paused while her nose stopped its concentration on the cosmos and played eskimo with his neck until she heard a a half moon play on his lips; audibly smiling. She continued, “It seems to me we keep trying to rope for wishes and dreams. And all we’re really doing is dragging down those luminescent and perfect orbs of anti-reality, shimmering at milky heights we’ll never reach– not in this life; in these bodies– dragging them down to graves. We’re not wishing on shooting stars, we’re catching stars with nooses, and boy! is that a two cents short of a dollar way to live.”


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