Overhead, you count the stars
upon your fingertips
wearing each as a diamond
as we lie among rose hips.

Though summer scents waft strongly
your smile is but a linger
of that wistful, half-hoped feeling
roped onto your empty finger.

I may not be your lover.
I may not be a prince.
But this I have known long ago
and made my peace with since.

So, until you find happiness
and until I find mine
we’ll watch the stars together
and sigh away the time.