I set out on a whim into the galaxy and cared not what I left behind; whose telescope eyes followed my trail from the vanishing earth with wistful wonder and counted the days between us with hatch marks on a bedside table.
You fall once, they say, and if you wake up bruised and no one has caught you to cradle you in his arms, you practice the art of thickening your skin and buy the biggest shades to shroud your jaded eyes.
And then, you pick yourself up and fight to map the stars.
I pray for wings and parachutes and let myself fall backward into the open sky, catapulted like a meteor with every intention of burning out bright.
And maybe one day, you fall again, and a scraped knee never stings as much the second time. Or perhaps it does…and all I can write about is having you and losing you.
There is more than one way to live, and to love.