If constellations are a figment of the imagination,
then why do they feel so real? Then again,
does imagining make anything any less real?

No one could notice your freckles
if they didn't look very, very, closely.
There were just a few, scattered here and there,
some loud and bright and bold, some soft and shy
like stars. Your features are a map of the night sky,
of the constellations, and I am the astronomer.

In that moment, I had not an inkling of care
for the fact that none other stopped to notice,
or for the notion that I, only I had taken the time to look
very, very closely. I am okay with that.

An astronomer, I saw stars that connected
together in faint lines. A connect-the-dots puzzle,
indeed. I saw constellations that fit as one
into some warped, multifaceted shape
that made no sense whatsoever,
and I'm okay with that, also.

I counted your freckles,
and I imagined that they were stars.
One star for hope. One star for sorrow.
One for joy and one for pain. One for
wisdom and strength and beauty and grief
and one for love.

There are 1000 stars
waiting to be discovered, still.
Look very closely, and maybe
you'll see them,
too.