You said I had my own light, the unidentified.
Just like spectrums I swing moods easily, like a kid with her tire swing.
The day I declare that I hate gravity, you watched me as I fall.
Around your atmosphere, I shall fiery burned similar to a Shooting Star.
A bright trail or streak that appears in the sky when a meteoroid is heated to incandescence by friction with the earth’s atmosphere. Friction causes the meteoroid to melt or vaporize or explode.
You were there, you are there and you will always be there, in a distant, in a constant distance.
Revolves in your own way, with sparkles inside illumination.
My eyes nailed on you, as I revolve in my orbit and you on yours.
In a constant distance, in the speed of light.
A celestial body that orbits a planet; a moon.
One who attends a powerful dignitary; a subordinate.
A subservient follower; a sycophant.
Never be apart, never be together.
Attached by molecular part of universe, with no strings in between.
“Looking upwards, I strain my eyes and try to tell the difference between shooting stars and satellites. ‘Do they collide?’ I ask and you smile.”
The world doesn’t matter.
Slawi, May 28th 2011, 11.17 pm