She'd sent me stars, two handfuls in that myst'ry package.
And when I opened  to unpack they came like swarms
of silver insects, bright and ready to invade.
A silver touch, I thought, the carpet was a-glitter,
I picked them up, so slowly, one by one
with lingering movements, 'cause her hands had known them.
There was a storm that came, without much warning.
It took my love and whirled it into spheres
that could not nourish it and breathing had to cease.
While I was searching for the force of evil
that sent this devil of a murderer  and  thief,
all other life went on without consideration
of devastation that had plunged in misery
my very soul, its spirit had been breached.
Just like the hurt that tends to linger,
in nerves of amputated limbs of man,
this phantom pain can safely be dismissed.
It would take time, I knew  to lose the memories,
and storms are really, don't you know, just acts of God.
Back to my reading now, which had been pushed
onto back burners, there was never any time .
When I perceived the slightest, softest touch upon my leg,
a star had fallen on  a wound that she had healed.
This silver, little, recalcitrant and noticeable,
this twinkling and obnoxious bitty star,
it did just sit there, twinkling like a hooligan.
Until two teardrops fell upon it from above.
This story ends here as it has not been determined,
if too much time has gone for any hope of rescue.
It is well known that love must, like any living matter,
maintain a breath or face a certain, final death.
What if, I ask with anxious trepidation,
a surrogate has been up in those clouds.
Could it just be the life of love was spared?
And would you tell me, show me, kindly, then,
I plead with all you Gods,  by Dawn's first light?