Can you let me paint myself to sleep?
Paint the sky. That is me.
The blinks. Those are my moles.
The mountain. Two. That, my feet.
Is that who I want to be remembered as?
A robust set of constellations in the night spread across two mountains?
Perhaps that is all I will show for the years plodding around,
Lugging possessions and mementos.
If that is who I become.
If that is all I become.
Then accept me.
Accept my mediocrity in all the grandest night skies.