The sun was so bright that day, cascading across your delicate skin. And the moon was so high that day, lighting the sky; you’d sworn it was bright enough that you could see into another universe, and you told me—you speculated— others lives within that universe, where the Greek gods and goddesses ruled, and life was tranquil. With euphoria in your eyes, you’d said, “I wish I could join them.” I’d laughed and agreed, but if only I had known. It was cold the next morning; empty; bitterness ate away at my shell. Your façade had melted—the constellations in your eyes had burned out. But you continued to smile, force and falsely, and told me you needed a walk, “I’ll be back soon.” Needless to say, you did not return. In your place was crumpled apology, and a regretful news report.
I couldn’t see the moon the next night. I shut the blinds and closed my eyes, whispering your name over and over and over. I hope you joined them; I hope you’re happy