Two bodies sprawled on the grass, one soul by night. Wriggling wet earth with their toes. Unscrupulous enough to invade the defenseless worm’s habitat. And they call themselves lovers. Such blasphemy!
But they’re watching the sky. And thats evidence enough for insanity. Insanity which for the lesser world translates to love.
Star gazing is their little secret. Watching them twinkle yet never really move. She is convinced they’ll move for her someday, like a million little fire flies. And when they do, He will pinch them off the big dark blanket and weave them in her hair. So she grows them longer still. Thats a lot of stars albeit the possibilities.
Her eyes hurt from all this dreaming and no living. From carrying the burden of a vast black emptiness for which she is to blame and a girl who has stars braided in her hair.
She must dream on.
She will be his only fire. The lighthouse guiding him ashore were he to ever forget the way home after a long walk for more stars to catch. He’ll narrate tweaked tales of his adventures on the skyship and she’ll never fail to act surprised, never letting slip that he told the same story the week before the last.
When they will put their heads on the grass again some night, there will be no dancing fireflies and no dreams of a girl who wove stars in her long hair weighing down her pretty lashes. And what else will cease to be?
That eagerness to wait for the night sky, wriggling wet earth with their toes impatiently. That hope of a distinctive star winking at them and orchestrating their private and exclusive show, her favorite dance on his favorite music.
And yes, Promises. There wont be promises he hasn’t kept and the glow in her smile that says he will.
The waiting, the hope, the dreams, the daring, the love, the lies, the blasphemies.
All lost in a single stroke of contentment.
Stagnation is morbid, if only they knew.
That is how love is. It wraps you in a warm cozy blanket and then it puts you in a very hot place. You, inevitably, throw the blanket over. Your foresight blinded by the illusion, The Oz of Love.
And then, like it always does, bitter winter sets in. Harsh and unforgiving. An indiscriminate killer. Why could it spare those enveloped in a sea of fake promises and comforting illusions? Not after they’ve rid themselves of the blanket of individuality, of freedom, of self. It is a test you can not choose to skip. Its not a ladder to something higher, its the journey of your desire and you can not miss this destination.
You can hold eachother close with the blush on her cheek and the fire in his bellly for warmth. Or you can be lost forever. Alone in an abmysal hollow. With no courage to break the ice.
And If the former it came to, when in some world that once was yours a bird sings, you’ll know its time.. for new promises to be written on the grass with the sratching of your feet.
Of a home on some high cloud, perhaps.