My Hidden Lives // Prose

79. about the difference in our skies

„It’s such a beautiful starlit night,“ he told me. When I looked up to where he was pointing, I saw nothing but the smoggy midnight sky.

„I don’t think we’re looking at the same thing. What have you been smoking?“

Though he tried to laugh at my feeble attempt at a joke, his expression was one of disappointment.

„My God, girl, who was it that clipped your wings? You used to be a dreamer when we met.“

I kissed him then, because he remembered me in the way he promised he would years ago, when I asked him to let go of the bad and keep our good bits alive instead. If we had anything back then, it was our power of imagination. The wings he’d helped me grow weren’t really gone. I kept each fallen feather in a box, so that if I ever found the glue they needed, I could put them back together. Some of them had been plucked though, by thieves I had loved after him – those I  couldn’t get back. Others got lost and floated away on the wind along the roads I traveled by, recklessly flying without thought of consequence. There weren’t nearly enough feathers to recreate the angelic spread so vivid in his mind.

Never mind, I thought. Life is about changing. I’m no angel anymore, but I can be a bird. That’s something, too.

„I think there’s still a little of the dream in me,“ I finally said. „I may not see the stars like you do, but the Moon’s within my grasp.“

„Well, alright then. I can work with that.“

He smiled, kissed me again and away we flew.




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