I wonder if stars feel lonely, like me. They sit up there, bright little dots on a dark blanket, all alone.
The moon told me once, she said, "Every star has a story." But I don’t know mine yet.
Sometimes I pretend to be a comet, racing through space with a tail. It’s more fun than sitting still.
There are flowers on Earth.
And whispers of old tales.
I met a shooting star last night. He was in a hurry, didn't even stop to chat.
Maybe he knew a place where we could belong.
Or perhaps it's just another endless drift.
I like to think I’m just lost, and being lost can be an adventure too.