By Oshadha Perera

You would sit on the treehouse,

legs dangling in the air,

and touch the pink sky,

watching shadows get longer,

the silhouettes of stars,

and birds flying home.

You would trace your finger

along constellations,

whisper to aurorae,

under the pulsing sky,

rhythms and heartbeats,

still breathing,

still singing.

You might feel the clouds,

how they wrap around you,

remember how things used to be

before she was an aurora in the sky,

magenta waves sinking,

when you would look out the window,

and hope,

that heartbeats and pulses,

that the voice she whispers in,

will still be there

the next day.