You have neglected to see the constellations braided in my cinnamon-chestnut hair, the stars woven through its strands. You have failed to see the galaxies dancing in my irises, waltzing along my eyelashes. I’ve always been a dreamer. Remember when I was young and played among honeysuckle blossoms? I might classify as a grown-up, but I still play among honeysuckles. I collected dandelions and put them in a paper cup with water, chased fireflies. Thoughts lifting me away above the mundane. So many have tried to tether me, but, you see, I’m not a balloon nor am I an anchor.
His heart had been confetti. It never tore evenly, ripped down its center. Its chambers are haunted by she who is not there. The silence where she used to sing. She was never his to claim, but he thought she was his destiny. The astronomy (the stars) mapped on her skin told him the route back to his home. But he was wrong. She was never his to claim. Others had come before him. Tried to pluck her beauty like ripping a daffodil by its stem. She was tenacious – not easily swayed – but she had more love than common sense.
I never fit the mold of small-town girl. My dreams were always the expanse of sky, but most people in town had little dreams. When I flew across the ocean, I did not expect to find a city that felt like home and belonging. Men on balconies blew kisses. Women put clothes on the line and sang in foreign languages. Everywhere was art. The alleys, the museums, the churches, the hostels. Every word translated to beautiful, beautiful. Damned dictionaries. This city, I loved her. I’d melt into her soil and grow roots if it meant to keep something this cherished.
The moment his lips met hers, it felt like firecrackers. She knew it was cliché, but sometimes, there are no other words. His hand slipped into hers sometimes in the quiet of early morning and when they drank coffee together, they both smiled. He lit her cigarettes and they danced late at night. Her dancing was erratic, and it made the creases around his eyes deepen like wrinkles in the sheets. They made love for hours. Breathlessly. Desperately. They were hungry for one another. Fingers dancing. Fumbling for words. Butterflies writhing in their stomachs. Absolute bliss. Swore it was infinite.