 She’s made of the nebulae, the shifting sands of stardust, carrying the glow of the moon in a cage of bones grown out of shattered asteroids. Hamal, brightest of all, sits on the crown of her head, weaving silver into her hair, draping on horns wrought of Sheratan’s porcelain gleam which stretch into the expanse of the universe, long forgotten words veiled by the moss and lichen, by the overgrown brambles and blooming white flowers. Mesarthim comes in a pair, just as Sheratan, but they curl on her shoulders to clasp the raiment of mist and lace filigree, and frost.Â
  She’s ethereal; you hold your breath for a moment, then you blink. She’s gone in that fraction of a second.Â
  There are no stars, no swirling galaxies, just a modestly decorated room. Pens of blue, black, yellow and red scattered on the table, a few succulents by the window, sunlight shuddering gently. Maps, polaroids, sticky notes that read with fresh ink and scratched history hang on the walls. She continues to write, pen scratching against the blank journal faintly.Â
  Her hands are dipped in paint, nails chipped as she jots down her notes into bullets, all detailed and neat, and academic, a mind set on its work. She turns, smiles, and you swear you see the daybreak setting behind her, but that vision vanishes.Â
  Still, you know she is one and the same.
Not exactly a poem, seeing as it’s more prose, if anything (prose poetry? Maybe?), for the lovely @stardusststudy. I tried to make it more personal with the information I had, and this is my first time joining a poetry SS, and I apologise if it’s really, really uber short.
I hope you have a wonderful holiday and year ahead!
