European nights.

Dark blue summer sky and clementine moon, I’m indebted to your unseen brushes painting the world. They say gravity bends even travelling photons, and it must be true, for even when you’re not here, I still feel your weight in me, and the colors tighten in, a rainbow spotlight cone shining down, enhancing this private moment of remembrance to a universal melancholy of stars lost from their nebulae. Stuck in a home until we’re stuck without one. The struggle in every being and everything, being of a kind when day breaks, being necessarily on our own when night comes creeping like a blanket over our cage. But what is a fantasy felt can be as real as the waking pinch on the arm, and we’re never quite alone as long as you are in me and I am in you. We might be out of our nebulae, but we’re just passing through. Dancing our very own two-sun waltz, forever creating constellations anew. I sense you here, in the night sky, in the haunted moon, even in my own reflection I see you staring back. I sense you in the darkest rooms, whispering in my ear to hold your hand. And magic strikes as I grab at nothing but feel your warmth.

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