As a child I moved my bed to the most impractical of places,

slept on the slim edge that I had created 

pillowed by the windowsill. 

The night air kissed my cheek through glass 

just so I may glimpse the company at night. 

Was I a fleck of beauty to them, too? 

Sleep often escaped me, 

a restless mind my father’s gift. 

These lights were my sheep to count 

tallied fingers swaddled under layers. 

Close and secret, between the sky and I. 

The stars wished me good night 

and the moon whispered dreams once I’d finally fallen.

Singing as they danced together across the field,

the same show, couldn’t miss a beat 

but I could never grow tired of their routine. 

I wonder now if the empty sky were a vinyl 

and these far suns were grooves scratched for sound,

what beautiful symphony would play? 

If even conceivable to our ears, 

perhaps the song of stardust and rock. 

I’ve grown up and I don’t know if they’ve noticed.

Can they see me through the fog over this city?

I miss how they shone just for me 

in the observatory between my sheets. 

Would they remember?

Written by Finnegan Fletcher.

Finnegan is an emerging multimedia artist, who lives for the child inside of him, dipping his toes into the world of language as a medium. @ffinnart