summer: midnight in late july. i reminisce: you and i
stargazing in a moonlit lake, the boat swaying to the lull
of the night-- remember: how we counted stars instead of
sheep, how i wondered if the stars in the water were a
reflection of the night sky, or the other way around. you
had laughed then, a note so light that it floated on the
surface of the lake as it slipped from your lips; i still
think i see it-- your laugh-- embodied in the flower petals
on the water-- fallen, but never drowning. remember: i,
dragging my fingertips through the cold water, trying to
catch a star in my palm, wanting to hold the universe
in my hand. imagine: the glass bottle that our boat had
stumbled upon, with a world spilling from it and back
again. and now i know that my tears are like glass:
iridescent, delicate, with a whole universe inside it-- how
do you turn back time? i had asked, eyes twinkling. and
you mused that there’s something mysterious about
stargazing: that when starlight reaches our eyes, the star
has already traveled light years, and we have traveled back
in time. so i lay here, stargazing on this moonlit lake, our
boat half-empty. and with my mind i make my tears flow in
retrograde, make the glass bottle drift backwards to where
i remember it. wondering, can dead stars come back to life?
remember: you were not moon-kissed, but star-crossed.