The night sky speaks to her.
These millions of stars, billions of galaxies, and trillions of lives,
She is the only one that has a definition to me.
She is my best friend.

It is Monday, and we’re sitting on the hillside at midnight.
She gazes out, smiling at every star with a defiant radiance.
She tells me that they all have their own existence.
I laugh softly, and the silence settles in.
The night sky is not alive; for the only light that glistens is her smile.

It is Tuesday, and the sky does not speak.
She claims that I am like the star Betelgeuse,
Dauntless enough to stand among the rest.
I declare her delusional.
She asserts that I am oblivious.

It is Wednesday, and her smile is more luminous than the moonlight.
We stand besides the heavens again, and talk for hours.
The influence of her essence pulls me in like the tides.
She is my best friend, and she believes that I matter.
I matter just as much as the night sky to her.

It is Thursday, and she tells me to assign her to a star.
I say that one can not compare to what she is.
It makes her overjoyed as I watched the stars illuminate.
She’s a constellation.
Yet even through my association,
The night sky still refused to speak to me.

It is Friday, and the stars are not as golden as usual.
But they still shine, as she adjusts her eyes to the blurring radiance.
I tell her that we can go back inside.
She refuses, confessing that the stars are having a somber evening.
She says that they need company.
So I sit, and the silence takes over.

It is Saturday, and she’s been outside all day.
She claims that the stars are apologizing for their absence.
I lay beside her and take her hand.
She recites about the cosmos living just like us.
I concede, and say that they all might as well be alive.
Even though I had complied,
The night sky does not speak to me.

It is Sunday, and I still do not understand.
She says to me that the stars are calling her name.
Her tears fall like raindrops, piercing the fragile earth.
I close my eyes, and try to imagine what that would be like.
Yet I hear nothing.

It is Monday, and the week commences leisurely.
Her glossy, crimson eyes reflect off of the night’s horizon.
I can see the milky way burst into a spectrum of light within her iris.
She does not say a single word tonight.
I know she is listening to the stars.

It is Tuesday, and the night air is crestfallen.
I feel the stars hang from a single thread.
I talk about Betelgeuse, and her constellations.
The sky does not speak a word.
Neither does she.

It is Wednesday, and the stars are whispering.
She is taken away from me.
The stars had reached down in an omnipotent matter;
Seizing her without a struggle, evermore.
Maybe she was right.

It is Thursday, and the stars are conversing.
She is not beside me.
I wonder why I can not see Betelgeuse.
I question why the constellations are not glimmering.

It is Friday, and the night sky speaks to me.
Her silence is filled by the murmuring of the faint stars.
But the cosmos seem blurred.
I can not find Betelgeuse.

It is Saturday, and she is gone.
I understand the things she used to say.
The stars talk and the constellations whisper.
I wonder if she’s laughing at me from trillions of miles away.
I wonder if she thinks that I am still oblivious.

It is Sunday, and the night sky is screaming.
Although Betelgeuse seems invisible, I am not.
I feel sorry.
The night sky says that it forgives me,
Even if I need a telescope to find myself again.

It is Monday, and I can not get her out of my head.
She was as vibrant as the cosmos.
She was as beautiful as the moon.
The night sky has lost more light,
And Betelgeuse has lost his own star.

It is Tuesday, and I believe that the night sky will never be silenced.
Their words spread through my head like wildfire.
Her constellation is gone.
Betelgeuse is gone.
She is gone.

It is Wednesday, and I do not go outside.
I hear them calling my name.
I hear them calling her name.
The night sky speaks excessively.

It is Thursday, and I cover my ears.
I do not want to hear them anymore.
Their lingering words leave my heart bruised.
I wish I never listened to her.

It is Friday, and I try not to miss her.
I struggle to remember her voice.
I lose the voices of the stars once more.
The night sky will not speak.
Neither will I.

It is Saturday, and I let go.
I sit outside and I hold barren air.
The silence has taken over.
The stars finally understand.

It is Sunday, and the night sky lights returns.
I see her constellations above me.
I know that my best friend would never return.
But I see us together in the night’s dark, painted canvas.
We are Betelgeuse and the constellations.

It is Monday, and I’m sitting on the hillside at midnight.
She smiles from the sky with magnificent radiance.
I tells her that the stars do have their own existence.
I remember her laugh vividly, even if the silence may settle in.
The night sky is alive; yet the only light that glistened was her.

The night sky speaks to me, even if she may not.
Yet her silence says a thousand words.
Millions of stars, billions of galaxies, and trillions of lives,
She was the only one that had a definition to me.
She was my best friend.