The Death of a Shooting Star

She was the moon. Glowing and bright. Her hair swept across her face as she looked down. Her laughter was a symphony. It floated through the air like a feather, lightly sweeping past the ears of those around her.

As she grew, the trees grew. She got taller. The days got longer.

Her tears created floods. Trees stopped swaying. Bees halted their buzzing. Birds stopped singing their tunes.

Her imagination created stars. Nebulas burst like a painting throughout space.

Wherever she stepped, gardens grew behind her. Wherever she sat, flowers sprout around her.

As she grew old, so did the trees. Her skin wrinkled, and so did the leaves from those trees. Her imagination dulled, and so did the color of the skies. Silky black hair became almost colorless.

When her last breath left her icy, blue lips the skies were angry. Snow fell from the sky like ashes. As her skin paled, the skies clouded. Because when she died, everything else died with her.

She truly was the center of the universe.