Counting the Stars

The museum girls hang their distrust on the walls, set their cynicism on the pedestals of their main exhibits, and in their hardened curator voices, tell the others never to long for another's affection. To look after themselves, to solve their own problems, and above all, to guard their own hearts. I admire them for their independence, their strength as women who can fend for themselves. But I want to step into those galleries and tell them that it is not a weakness to want, to dream, to yearn for love, to honor late loved ones as if they are with us, to ache in our chests for those miles away, to lift the glass cases from over our hearts and believe we will not be elbowed to the floor and shattered. And if we are, to pick up the pieces and yearn again. We are not stone; we need one another. We are not paint; we at once grieve and grin. We are eager and anxious, we fear, we climb mountains, and in our only resemblance to rock, we may break. But we can keep each other standing, risk our hearts side by side, watch each other's backs, and pick up the pieces 'til our cracks run together. And when we feel safe in our reckless reciprocation, watch the sun rise over each other's rooftops and know we are where we belong.