the weight of what ifs

The black and white tapestry above my bed

paints a subtle reflection

of the personality of my room,

holding the insufferable weight

of millions and millions of stars,

some bright, some dull,

all too far away to make out

their true identities.

They blur into a deceivingly

beautiful canvas,

a distraction from the

sharp truths they hold.

But just too far away.

Some are close enough

to just barely reach,

wrap a fingertip around,

but it's hot,

burning.

Quickly releasing it back 

onto the canvas

before I can see its name.

Still a mystery,

a painful one,

yet to be discovered.

What did it mean?

The illegibility of the stars

keeps them heavy,

their impossible meanings

turning weight into fire

when rarely deciphered.

Invisible flames creep cautiously,

so they can spread 

back to the canvas,

so they can't be put out.

What if I could see the flames, what if I knew what they meant?

The stars, gorgeous from afar,

only reveal their flames

if you let them get close enough to burn you,

leaving meaningless scars

that disappear back into the sky

when you show them to someone else.

The tapestry's weight remains unchanged,

the exchanging of new stars with old,

preventing it from snapping onto

the floor of my room,

giving it a little more unnecessary personality.

But I think the canvas paints 

enough of a picture

for someone looking from

so far away.