All that she ever touched
had become a part of the ocean
that she'd painted in her head.
Her hands were pieces of the old blue sky.
In them were buried a myriad stars
that died years ago,
but their light still gleams
from out of her fists.
And when she wished
on shooting stars,
a parachute would descend
from that sky to this,
and land on either of
the palms of her hands.
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