His Shooting Star
Sometimes I try to wonder what my future love would think of me in my own words.
He loved the way she talked about the things she loved and hated like a song that repeated like a theme to a modern movie. The things she loved reoccurred in every aspect of her appearance and every detail of her movement. She loved poetry and so her language seemed to be more beautiful than average and her mind more magnificent than others. I craved her passion and for her to implement her trust into my bones.
She adored the stars, more than herself or her favorite memory. Every night, before sleep she cooped herself up beside the nearest window and laid her head against the wall. She cracked open the window so she could feel the night’s chilly winds against her skin. It was March and the air was still tremendously cold but she didn’t mind. Her eyes leaped from star to star, occassionaly searching for a lonely shooting star. And that’s how he saw her. She was a lonely shooting star, although she did not appear to be lonely, rather she found herself alone but detached from the feeling of lonliness.
He would find her in the corners of busy cafes with her nose tucked in between the pages of a slightly tattered book with a half filled cup of tea and her headphones tucked into the hearts of her ears. Her hair was never perfect, she was never perfect. She obtained the idea of perfection but in a different way. A beautiful way. Her hair always seemed to be dancing with the wind and her eyes never ceased to wander. She was a wanderer herself, a detached from lonliness shooting star that soared through life so naturally I wondered if she knew what a marvel she was to watch. I found her to be my entertainment even in her simplest acts.
A shooting star, who found love in every crevice of time.