by John P. Kristofco

the stars deceived him yet again--
come hither glint in moonlit eyes,
ice in drinks,
velvet voice across the space
between his folded hands
and everything he'd never touched--
all vanished in the sun
that finds his colors yet again
and places all the shadows
and the pallor of his every day
in traffic, on sidewalks,
exactly where they're meant to be

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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