My stars

The paint on the walls is drying,
And I sit here,
Admiring
My happenstance work.
The walls are neat,
And the words
And sheetrock
Are evenly coated.

But my attention is caught
By my arms.
Paint, it seems,
Is a clingy thing.

The smattering of splatters,
The random arrangement,
Has somehow made me
My own night sky.
Unique constellations,
A dribbled galaxy or two,
I am my own universe.
Even after
I wash my stars away.

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