Feb 2015
(prologue.)
The night was so full of stars that it seemed to hold all the universe. But she knew it didn’t. He did. They walked on a moonlit meadow up above the world and he was a pretty boy and she was empty of breath, all bright eyes and no substance.
If he opened his mouth, galaxies would come spilling out and she would lap it up for want of something in her system, and realize only too late the existence of voids, the presence of black holes. That in all good, there is something not-so. And in all bad, there is reason to laugh.
With his gait graceful and her gaze far, if the observer were to stand on a hill across, they would make for lovely twin fairies. But their footsteps are heavy: feet mired in gravity and carrying weight, heads and minds suspended like heavenly bodies, hearts studded with stars that shine like heaven and burn like hell. Yes, their footsteps are too heavy and everything is real.
Or is it? This night and this sky—whatever it may be, magnificence or disappointment—does not hold all the universe.
(i.)
The wind rustled the leaves of a nearby tree and the grass came to softly tickle their feet. He was looking hard at her with his soft eyes but saying nothing. She sighed, avoided his gaze, and asked a bit wearily, “What is it? Why the silence?”
“I’m trying to show you,” he said patiently. “You listen to too much music to know that this is magic.” The pale skin of his eyelids closed themselves against his bright green eyes. He stretched out on the grass beside her slumped form and when he was there, felt for where her hand lay, absently pulling at a blade of grass. He ran his thumb along the back of it and said, “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. The trees, the leaves, the grass, and the wind. The sight of you. The sight of you against the sky. The twinkling silence of a breath being held and the heartbeat that quickens and the stars that give their light just a bit brighter before the second ends. It could last for hours, you know, but when it’s gone, it’ll always feel like just a second.” Her left hand felt cool where his hand had stopped being present. She began to pull at another poor blade of grass. He’d turned to look at her, her back still to him, against which her hair lay, long, a little black mixed in with the colors of the night. “We’ll never have this moment again. You know.”
The night was so full of stars that it seemed to hold all the universe. But she knew it didn’t. He did. They walked on a moonlit meadow up above the world and he was a pretty boy and she was empty of breath, all bright eyes and no substance.
If he opened his mouth, galaxies would come spilling out and she would lap it up for want of something in her system, and realize only too late the existence of voids, the presence of black holes. That in all good, there is something not-so. And in all bad, there is reason to laugh.
With his gait graceful and her gaze far, if the observer were to stand on a hill across, they would make for lovely twin fairies. But their footsteps are heavy: feet mired in gravity and carrying weight, heads and minds suspended like heavenly bodies, hearts studded with stars that shine like heaven and burn like hell. Yes, their footsteps are too heavy and everything is real.
Or is it? This night and this sky—whatever it may be, magnificence or disappointment—does not hold all the universe.
(i.)
The wind rustled the leaves of a nearby tree and the grass came to softly tickle their feet. He was looking hard at her with his soft eyes but saying nothing. She sighed, avoided his gaze, and asked a bit wearily, “What is it? Why the silence?”
“I’m trying to show you,” he said patiently. “You listen to too much music to know that this is magic.” The pale skin of his eyelids closed themselves against his bright green eyes. He stretched out on the grass beside her slumped form and when he was there, felt for where her hand lay, absently pulling at a blade of grass. He ran his thumb along the back of it and said, “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. The trees, the leaves, the grass, and the wind. The sight of you. The sight of you against the sky. The twinkling silence of a breath being held and the heartbeat that quickens and the stars that give their light just a bit brighter before the second ends. It could last for hours, you know, but when it’s gone, it’ll always feel like just a second.” Her left hand felt cool where his hand had stopped being present. She began to pull at another poor blade of grass. He’d turned to look at her, her back still to him, against which her hair lay, long, a little black mixed in with the colors of the night. “We’ll never have this moment again. You know.”
