I listened to one of your favorite songs again; Drops of Jupiter by train. I remember how much you loved the song. Always rambling about how much you loved the stars.
You’d tell me when you fell in love it would be with someone who loved the stars just as much. That I had to make sure whoever they were, that they would take you to Jupiter, Neptune, and Mars.
For so long I brushed over everything I felt. Watching you get excited about every constellation you knew. I still to this day can’t understand how beautiful you looked as the moon light kissed your rosy cheeks.
Dancing to the wind’s songs, leaping around the park lamps as you pictured touching the milky way. Wondering how silky it might feel in your own hands. You’d look so adorable each time I called meteors just another rock with a few extra peaks.
Your voice laced annoyance every time you said, “it’s not just another rock damnit. It’s home.” Don’t you remember? You said similar things when I mentioned the unnecessary idea of wishing on shooting stars. You told me to stop acting like an idiot and just appreciate it. So I stopped.
I stopped commenting on how you couldn’t go a night without watching the stars; Instead, I became addicted to the night lights too. Wanted nothing more than the feeling of the cool air tracing patterns on my skin. Started wanting the moon to dance with me but the clouds always got in the way. I could never listen in to the crickets long enough to understand their songs. During the days when I couldn’t see the stars, just like you, my happiness dropped.
You just wanted someone to love you that very same way you loved the stars. Thinking about it now, I wish I could. I mean, for so long, I always wondered where my love for the galaxy began.
How grateful I am now to know that it was you who caused the start. Except I’m still unsure if – now that you’re gone – I should stop. Even if I could, I’m not sure I can.
P.s. When you get to the stars, if you find Peter, tell him I said hi.