Shooting Stars.

Do not leave me here,
shivering with cold;
Every inch exposed
for the universe
to mock and scorn.
I reach up to grab
a distant star,
hoping against hope
that it might not
shrink back from
my tender touch.
Everything runs.
Like my mascara,
or Aiden's Dad.
Like a watercolor
painting with an
excess of water.
Like my t-shirt
I dyed with Rit
my Senior year
of high school.
Predictably,
the star fled
from my open palm.
But it was not
how I imagined.
What I regarded
with such disappointment,
was not a star
escaping from my
greedy reach,
but one that was
in pursuit of that
which I could not
supply.
Taken aback,
I understood.
"Follow me,"
whispered the tiny
celestial body.
It urged me to
Pursue.
Seek.
Find.
Sometimes running
is not a way
out.
It is a way
towards.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012