In Iowa, the light sky is brilliant–thousands of tiny lily-white spots blinking and dancing across a midnight pitch-black. So much of my twenties was spent in backs of pickup truck, on dust-covered gravel superhighways, on rooftops, or peeking through auto spaces at the splendor of that Midwest sky.
There was something about the brightness that humbled me. In gazing up, I was so small–and that simple point seems to field me somehow.
The California sky is different. Less pitch-black, and the stars a softer grey. A year and a half of watching sundowns fade into darkness and it doesn’t quite feel like residence. But I still discover the constellations from my bedroom window, wondering if 2,500 miles away you’re doing the same.
The night sky returns a silence I’m still ascertaining to admit. Sort of like length, and how I’m memorizing to accept you not being here for all the big and little moments. Sort of like kindnes, and how I’m hearing to accept there are some things you just can’t apprehend, simply can’t plan.
I’ve always been afraid of the future. Always been afraid of things I can’t hold within my palms, make sense of within the creases of my mind.
You was exactly that–never strange, but ever a whodunit. We walked for two hours around that little coast township the light we met and your narratives poured out like water. I was doing my best to keep my ability above the present, but what I truly craved was to let go and time float.
We stopped on the wharf by the ocean, watched the waves hurtle into the beach. I recollect “ve been thinking about” how scary and uncharted that irrigate was–how perhaps this was a allegory for love, for life–all the attractivenes and yet so much still unknown.
I watched the motions sparkle for the purposes of the moon. They mirrored the sky, one circle of beautiful, illuminated darkness smothering us. And for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t afraid.
We fell in love gradually, or maybe it wasn’t sluggish at all. Sometimes these kind of tenderness time creep up on you. I retain the exact instant I told you–you were talking about your fantasies and I couldn’t keep the from suds up in my chest.
I addrest the words to life under that California sky, underneath those soft lily-white constellations and all their legends and predict. And maybe that instant is another metaphor in itself.
We are like stars–there’s an opportunity we might burn out. There’s a chance the universe knows our destiny, knows we’re “ve been meaning to” fade before the light years even contact us.
There’s a chance our brightness won’t heated one another forever.
But if I am a star, and my era is impermanent, I want to keep burning for you.