A Sky Full of Lies

She looked up, five years old,

her face a clean, bright page.

"The star you promised me," she told

me, turning a fresh new age.

We stood beneath the streetlight's hum,

a yellow ghost of sun.

I'd said it lightly, just for fun,

"I'll catch you a bright one."

I saw the trust in her wide eyes,

a simple, shining faith.

My careless words, those gentle lies,

now held a certain wraith.

Because the sky, it keeps its light,

and stars are made of fire.

How could I bring one in the night,

to quell her sweet desire?

I mumbled something, soft and slow,

about the moon, its grace.

But knew the truth, she didn't know

the real, hard, empty space.

And now that promise, thin and vast,

like smoke it drifts and stays.

A silent debt, built to outlast

her bright, believing days.