The sky was never as dark as it should have been, the stars not as bright, or as many, or as close, as they should have been. Should have. Been. Too many should haves.
He wishes for darkness, wishes for the world to turn off just this once, had thought this thought many times as he searched the skies and wondered the questions of life—what’s out there and what’s after this?—had done so from an early age and still does, only now he asks new questions and wonders new things and finds new pain.
The sky encompasses everything; even pain.
He lays on the ground and…just stares. It’s lonely, isn’t like it’s supposed to be, but it’s good enough. For now. He never even had the chance to see the sky in a different way, a new light. That’s what hurts most. So many hurts, so many questions, in the sky.
He wonders if he is dark enough to see her light. The night sky, beautiful from the first time he remembers it. Not saw, but remembers. The image stuck in his mind, his heart, piercing and free and prisoning. So dangerous, as he knew and accepted and will accept and will know. So little beauty left in the world, that he holds onto those precious moments, those words, those intentionally sleepless nights, and tucks them away for another time.
The sky will hold his secrets, his heart, and he the sky’s. There’s something here, beautiful and true no matter what the future brings. The sky does that to him—makes him lay and stare and wish.
He hates goodbyes, yet night is fleeting and always seems to leave on the cusp of brilliance. It returns. When? When he lays beneath again, and stares above, and the stars align correctly. Not for a long time, maybe. But eventually. He’s sure of that. The stars have a way of aligning correctly when they must, when such has been written in the stars themselves. Maybe it would be too easy any other way, for the stars not to be involved. Fitting. He always wanted to be an astronomer. Shares that with someone out there.
He holds hope, for it is all he has.
Tonight, he knows that new stars appear in the darkness, while others, those he remembers best, those he stared at the longest and hardest, what may only be a few seconds, a minute, days, weeks, a month, two months that seemed far longer and far shorter—those stars remain, burning forever. This, too, he is sure of; true light does not fade, but finds a home within you, changes you, may even haunt you in its silent radiance. He has never liked silence. Some stars, so few, hurt his eyes, blinds him to the others. He cries when he sees them. So bright, so real; he reaches out to them, grasps them, joins with them, cherishes them, and finds his hands empty. Still reaching. Stars soften his hands.
He wants, so badly, something to hold onto.
His face is wet. The night sky rains, and it doesn’t.
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