Stars on Skin

I brushed my finger across that photograph,

a constellation of freckles, a galaxy on her nose,

her laugh ringing like chimes, but is it beautiful?

I wonder if she hates them, if they’re a mark

she’ll carry into adolescence—shame’s quick grasp

or maybe she’ll cherish them as wild stories—

sunlit afternoons on a blanket, how I’d remember

my own skin like hers, the imprint of sun,

each freckle a tiny star, worth wishing on.

As the evening light draped around her,

the breeze sang softly, a lullaby we shared,

times when love was easy, wrapping around us

like silk—the gentle touch of memories, still bright.