on the way to Los Angeles

sometimes I used to question gods existence on long car rides from Oakland to Los Angeles.

I counted the stars in the sky, or at least attempted to. My 10 year old mind would always have some kind of wonder about the cosmos.

I was told that the stars were angels but I never believed it true.
I used to stare into the night sky for hours until it was time to go back and mother said ‘ya nos vamos’.

The stars are angels, matter of fact, they’re ghosts of the past from millions of years ago.
But why do my eyes cry comets with frozen h2o speckled across my brown sky.

The cause of the tears?
Repititive road trip thought:
Why does my mind go to and fro?
Why did my father die?
Why hasn’t gravity let go
and let my stars fly.


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