The stars are white as milk teeth. We pluck them down with the same giddy anticipation, and they come loose with the same sucking resistance as old teeth from the gum – a gnawing, good pain, an inward rush of pleasure. They are cold and small and hollow in our hands, too, just like our first teeth. We will save the stars, put them away in a box lined with soft cloth and keep them as reminders of a lost moment to which we can never return.
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