Silence and Stars

You feel about as far away as all these stars out here tonight, and the eeriness of your disappearance haunts me with the same unease as the infinite nature of the universe. Really, love, you’re something cosmic to me, a collision between timing and bad fortune, and the aftermath was a shattered mess more uninhabited than the night sky.

I try to connect the dots to make logical constellations.

It’s all a puzzle fresh out of the box: pieces upside-down, pieces right-side-up, corners and edges scattered amongst the shuffle. I ache to build the framework, but is it worth it?

I’ve sorted the edges out from the rest, and started constructing the dream again.

Would you even notice? Have you buried some pieces deep inside you, where they can’t complete what’s inside me?

I look up at the stars again, this time with binoculars, but they only amplify the number of fragmented light particles piercing through the black backdrop.

Where do I begin?

How can I remind you of the constellations we painted when we were falling in love?

The sun set in haste, and adjusting to the darkness is torture.

In the end, when I’m in my loneliest hour and I hate what you did to me, I love you all the same. I said it out loud, because it slipped away too many times before. Because if I never told you, you’d never know.

I wish you’d fallen in love with me, too.