he who sold out the stars

There are stars.

All the pale hair and slenderness and silver eyes of heaven, now tripping down steps, trailing sticky hands down banisters, their voices drunk on moonlight as they, in all their ugly gowns -- fall. Star trembles with all its might to touch the boy at the very end of her world, slips on his shadow, giggles at his fear. The Gemini follow suite. Lost little girls looking for authenticity, that's all they are, leeches of the otherworld. He should have never meddled with the astral, because now, like brainless fish, the stars have been lured and redefined. Their gills breath stardust, not oxygen. He knows they'll drown.