Maps to the Stars

The days were always bustling, somehow sadly beautiful. The sky an impossible blue, filled with fat marshmallows of clouds. Dotted by the occasional, pregnant gray.

People were always jumping into cars, leaving. Life was happening, and there was no time. Soon the parking lot grew quiet, empty and sullen. The grayest mouth, without teeth.

We couldn't keep the houses clean. There were too many signs of our existence, too many polka dot dresses and dishes, too many burger wrappers and baby toys. The strange yet beautiful dots on the map we left behind. Like stars. Somewhere, you could always hear a woman's voice from another room. The soft cadence of her crying falling wet on the stairs.

We lived in homes piled atop each other. But no one ever came out. Never said, Hello, do you need something. A hand. A friend. We lived our lives behind the thickest white blinds, the thickest lines. Light and dark figures rustling behind curtains. Cats and raccoons starving in the alleyways.

Night was the blackest dress. Damp, lethargic filets of clouds lingering. When we were ready, we gave ourselves over to the darkness. Huddled under blankets smelling of sweat and the night's dinner. The pillows we placed under our heads that left the smallest, whitest feathers everywhere. They got lost in our hair, showed up in our dreams.

So impossibly white. So impossibly pure.