Constellations.

Constellations

     In the mornings the light through the broken shade quivers on the ceiling above our bed. Beside me your breath is still and even. Your back has tossed the covers aside. I see every line.

     It hurts, how much she hurt you. All of it was years ago.

     I am not sure what to do, but I want to heal you. Sometimes I believe that if I could hold you close enough I could glue you back together.  I just see how weakly I adhere to you and know that it is not possible, for me to be the glue that holds you, and me, and us together.

     I could be a needle. I think I could do it; the words I say to you as the alarm startles you awake, the warm whisper you breathe before coffee makes you smell sweeter, and  the pressure of your thumb over my hand when you fall onto the comforter at the exchange of day and night could rightly be called the threads that weave us together. All I have to do is point them out. I would not have to do that if I could make the stitches a little longer or a bit shorter, adjusting the fabric of our relationship so that we have the most room to expand.

      Honestly, though, that little hem line is for mistakes made when picking out what kind of fabric we wanted but could not agree on. We found a thrill in the ribbing. In the beginning we were both odd scraps picked out of the piles of ending bolts, like a tandem lottery, but also like a clearance.

     Over time we showed our age.  You showed me the sun and  I got these tiny dots all over. Our outdoor adventures gave me stars on my skin and in my eyes. I wondered how many I had until you sat next to me and asked to count them. I waited while you looked longer than I thought you would.

     You touched my shoulder. I turned and my mouth sagged. You had that pained look again, the kind I associated with her. I asked what was wrong and was it really that bad.

     You said I was perfect. I asked what that meant. You talked about numbers and something else, I honestly do not remember. At the time your fingers drew lines over my back in patterns that felt nice but distant. All of your scars were visible because of the broken shade.

     I still see it. I know you do, too. You see her when you look at me.

     The ancients had these stories where powerful beings lost their loves. They put the memories of their fallen lovers in the night skies. Whenever they looked up at the stars they saw the patterns of their past.

     In the constellations you made you somehow forgot to leave the stars for the night.  But it will be okay. I will try to pull us together again.  Your scars will disappear, and the red lines on your body may fade if they stay in the sun.  I will take you there. I promise.

     We are a little broken, It is okay. Together we will heal in the sun, and make new constellations for the night.