in this story

in this story we were old. we weren’t old in other stories i had told before but in this story we were seventy therefore we had to borrow bodies from the stars. but our bodies — the stars’ bodies — were certainly pointless anymore cause what mattered in this story were the you and the i just like it had always been.

in this story we were seventy and we were laying beneath a blanket of stars whose names each of them we hadn’t given yet however it didn’t matter after all. as we were facing each other, you looked into my eyes and said “i love you”. your words sprinkled in my mind, finding their place amongst all the others you had said to me all this time. my lips curled into a tender smile whilst i looked back at you and i replied “i love you too”.

in this story we were seventy and we were laying beneath a blanket of stars and i stared into your lips cause they seemed about to say something again — something that i supposed could be more powerful and was capable of engraving them eternally into time and space than an i love you could do — but they stopped moving. i closed my eyes, waiting for a few seconds yet still no sound could be heard. later i realised that some things can’t always be said, even the words i had collected one at a time as if they were the sands inside the hourglass i was holding.

the next time i opened my eyes, i wasn’t seventy and the hourglass was empty. above all, you weren’t there and i couldn’t find you anywhere.