The Stars


Nighttime was the best; cool blue fading into star-flecked black until if seemed as if there was nothing above but possibilities. Possibilities that taunted when there was a layer of glass to blur and distort and isolate.

Isolation was an intimate acquaintance, even when there was the hushed murmur of another person scant inches away. Close enough to touch but
so very far away.

It had been a pointless argument, one of too many lately. Each one settled, but leaving bitter ashes in its wake. Ashes that were swept aside while they both pretended that they didn't exist. How high could the pile get before it could no longer be ignored?

The question stung and no amount of twisting and turning could soothe that kind of pain.

The stars above glimmered seductively like sirens of infinite possibility. Their beauty called even when eyes were closed and head turned away.

A touch, warm and feather light. I'm sorry, it said without words.

So am I, was the response, spoken with a turn of the body and tilt of the head.

A whole hand now, resting on an arm, and the brush of a foot against a leg. So close, but no longer so isolated.

A sweet brush of lips against lips, then the parting and a meeting of tongues and teeth. Hands questing and grasping, desperation making them bold.

Please, they beg as they clasp familiar flesh. Please.

Oh, yes. Pleading turned to acceptance. The body can be so much wiser than the brain. It understands and it accepts. It forgives.

The stars cast their light downwards through glass onto two figures, intertwined. The stars witness, and are jealous.


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