A Whistle

A Thought on Stars

We lay in the newly sprung grass and watched the stars slow progression across the sky.

Our thoughts were above, not interested in us and our problems.

It was as if the stars thread together, connecting to each other in any way possible.

The clouds wove their way past, not in any rush. Where are they to rush to?

I raise my hand into empty air and trace it along the jaw of the clouds.

"The sky. It is made of glass. I feel close to touching it.

And this ceiling, this ceiling of ours, is blocking the clouds journey to try and meet us. See how they are pressed up against the glass, wanting to get in?

And then, to the edges of this vision we have, we see how this ceiling curves up slightly, and then slides out of sight. Hey. Our sky is smiling."

I laugh. You don't.

I turn to the sky once more.

"We're like stars," I hear you say, "hiding behind clouds."

I keep my ever ending gaze on the sky.

"But the clouds are running away." I say, watching them stretch across the ceiling above us.

"I want to run away. Just for a while. To see who I would be missed by. But then I realize that it won't fix anything." is all you say.

Then we lay, for an eternity, on the cold grass. Before long the cold seeps up our backs into our hearts and minds, and we go inside.