In Different Skies

the cold stars lighting

i am standing in the bathroom and i can hear his voice, soft and gentle from next door. 

he is standing before the mirror, adjusting his hat, dusting off his shoulder pads with slim, pale fingers. 

and i can't quite hear what he's saying; he likes to talk to himself and pretend his words are directed at me. 

maybe this makes him feel better in some way. 

but i do not mind. 

so i am standing in the bathroom, and i am smoothing my hair down with a small, brown comb. and i am listening to his sweet, youthful voice, and i am home. 

when i pass through the doorway and stand there, watching him with stars in my eyes, i notice how the sun streams through the window on the ceiling, and he looks ethereal; a dream. i want to reach out and touch him but i know he is not mine and never will be, so as always i watch from a distance; 

close enough to admire his beauty, far enough to avoid breaking my own heart. 

title taken from [i saw his round mouth's crimson]