He is your friend.
You – lonely, lonely little astronaut; gliding, sinking, swimming through the creases of a star-knit space. There is no gravity, in an abyss where you slip through the slides of every which pull – the presence of none else lingers, in this lonely, lonely place. You wonder, what the appeal was, in the first place; watchful eyes that dance humorously ‘pon your skin, snickering tongues seeping through the blindfold ‘cross your face. To them, it is transparent. To you, it is your guard.
Faithful still soldier – does it tire you, little astronaut? To hide? To conceal? To bury what you know? Does it scare you, little astronaut? For them – planets so large and strong, unfathomable to you, right before your eyes – to witness you exposed to your very self? And you’re shaking, little astronaut, for whatever to come – in this dark place we call space, there is no such thing as an ally.
And then a shooting star stops. And then the shooting star smiles. And thus, your heart mimics such as well.
Whereas all others grinned only to pull you closer to Earth, the glow of his face; shut your words in those lips and tied it safe. But those lips stick to his smile, although it pains him; and you wonder, quietly, of his secrets, too. Those kept-down things he swallows beneath his throat, locked in his heart, away – you want to keep him close, the gravitational pull small. You want to stay here, orbiting, and among those daunting planets, peace with the shooting star who pressures down his tears.
It’s a supernova, when you’ve had enough. Quaking words to shake the nothing air around you and even he too, your star, trembles; your shout, contrasting. Loud and new and brave, and he apologies, ‘o little shooting star – his smile fades and as all what he’s held down unleashes like a faintly smiling beast, you once again mimic it. And there you are, together, zero gravity, wrapping tendrils ‘round one another; he brings you closer, under, and gently down. And it feels like just another night.
Another moon shining through your window. Another snicker muttered under his tongue. Another watchful glance, to make sure you would not get caught, not ever, not with him. Closer he brings his body to yours. Closer, resting your tired head, little astronaut, on his shoulder, you sit and watch the night sky you once crowded yourself around, this time with him. He pecks you with his stardust, lips no longer heaved with weight, and you sigh. One day you’ll return. One day you’ll orbit once again.
With his stardust on your lips, you are fearless.