I am not your morning star. I am not composed of beauty or luminosity. I used to burn, for you, and for you only. I could not take another's hand. We used to wake up at half past nine and have coffee together on your couch. You would close your eyes and doze off, but I always stayed awake, taking you in. Resting my head on you and listening to your heart, beating soft against the walls of your chest. At peace. You would rise and kiss my hand and I would wrap myself in a tent made out of blankets and tell you no boys allowed but you always found your way in. I remember the bunny noses and the hand holding and the face you made that brought me laughter when nothing else could. Do you recall the lunch breaks and the way you'd put your hand on my back? Do you have any recollection of the night we spent four hours in my car, listening to the pouring rain in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere? I can tell that you don't know me anymore. I can tell you've forgotten. And I've moved on, too. I'm not bitter, or distraught. There is no regret, no anger, no desire to find an absolution. I am not lonesome. I am not your morning star. When you wake up tomorrow, you'll drink your coffee alone.