Untitled Poem #8

You and I
always travel under the cover of night,
letting the midnight winds
caress our skin
that, just hours ago,
baked in the sweltering sun.
We roll the sunroof back
and we watch the stars blink on,
mesmerized by what mysteries
lie beyond our field of vision.

That’s the thing about the stars:
You and I may never know
their intricate secrets.

And when the morning arrives,
the sun rises behind
the mountain range,
bathing the land in a warm
pink glow.

That’s the thing about the sun:
she has no mystery about her.

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