Pressure

You forced your fingers into crevices

where young words struggled to breathe

on their own.

They held worlds in their lungs,

beginning to stand, to set loose new stars

in each exhale.

You should not have been there,

prying meaning out of these blossoming forms,

searching their darling galaxies

for something to fill your appetite,

instead of gathering up the dust

like the rest of us.

You should not have been there.
The stars weren’t yours to harvest.

(The last line shouldn't be separated. Formatting, out of my control.)