Is that okay? he says, his voice low and soft. I take a deep breath, the air smells of sweat and cologne. I nod. Firm hands on warm skin, ache through it, talk about our lives in brief interjections, like curiosities, like nothing really exists outside this room, we only pretend it does. I emerge from the fog eventually, unsure of the events, unsure of the soft bruising along my back, sit staring at the night sky. Snow in May, I sigh, exasperated, and look for shooting stars again. Happy just to hope for something.
The thing about night skies, though, is you can spend the hours looking for shooting stars upon which to place your prayers, but you ignore the brightest light of all.
So I stared at the moon instead, this steady beacon, this reliable light in the darkness. How many millenia have we wondered about its rough shadows, how many nights has it lit my way home? You can look for morsels of magic all you like.
The answer was always much more obvious than you could have asked for.
But no one can make you see the light but you.
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