The stars trace an inexplicable web across the night sky, like the milky dew drops resting on intricately spun silk early in the morning. M. lays with her back to the bed of grass, and her chest heaves, taking in the brisk air. My eyes are closed, absorbing the variable sounds and smells around me, slowly sighing one of those slightly happy sighs that almost whistle through my teeth.
She props herself up on one elbow, her hair cascading down, flowing like the river, in the valley between her breath. Her face seems to shine with the intensity of Suns, the dimples bracketing her smile, her brows relaxed in thought. My fingers lace into her hair, behind her ears, and I could feel the warmth radiating from her body into the cold night.
It’s this green meadow up high in the Hayward hills, across from CSU East Bay that we used to come out to, where you could see from San Francisco to Oakland, from bridge to bridge. Here, the heavens seemed just that bit closer to our outstretched hands that reach out in earnest yearning.
I slowly roll the butt of my Dunhill between my fingertips, the smoke swirling upward like an opium-induced dream. Within the thick clouds, the future seems to be well-defined, ethereal as it may seem. Here, it was just us, and the worries of that time period were far away. And I wondered, if the troubles made things worth it to work for. It’s those split second decisions that really define our character, and who we are.
The moon wanes as the night creeps onward, as we too, waned. Sometimes it gets past a certain point where even the light gets sucked into a black hole. The last goodbyes are always the most bittersweet.
