Stars and a giant
I know you don’t want to. But I also know that you can’t help but wonder whether the contours of her face match yours. Oval. Round. Heart-shaped. Square. You know her hair must be blonde, or red, or perhaps brown--and that her eyes are probably light, or at least lighter. Her skin is certainly freckled, or maybe bronzed by the sun, or likely, pasty and translucent. Really, you have no idea, do you? I think she’s pretty. Not that it matters. And you do know, right? That there have been others besides?
That night that you traced constellations on his face, pressing your fingers gently from one eyebrow to the next and then up and across the curve of his forehead and back down along his chin, did you actually begin to see stars? I know what it’s like. I’ve been there myself. You feel so light and warm it’s like you could be planet-hopping--visiting soft, puffy lands where fat pixies spoon-feed you the gaudiest butterflies that even still are tussling in your stomach. But, now, the feeling isn’t so much light and warm as it is heavy and nervous, right? There’s been a certain sadness inside since he last said goodbye. I know that you tried not to feel like that, but I also know that you couldn’t help but get carried away and that you’d forget your feet and that you’d lose yourself amongst those stars. It’s like that with stargazing sometimes. You get so entranced that when you look back down again, you find your feet are at least a yard away from where you began, and even further away from where he was standing. And when you look back up at the stars, they seem different, don’t they?
When you finally turned off the light that night, your head wasn’t cradled in that shallow hollow between his shoulder and his chest the way you thought it would be, was it? Instead, your back was facing him. Your body, curled, small, and a little cold. His body, spread out across the rest of the bed--warm, comfortable, solitary. A giant could have been sleeping between you there was so much distance. Were you still seeing stars then? And if you were, was it their brightness that kept you up? Or was it something else? Was it the giant breathing down your neck? There’s a story, isn’t there, about a giant who plucks stars from the sky? Does he burn his hands when he touches them? Does it hurt? Does he flinch?
You told me that you told him that night, “You’ve touched me.” And I forgot to ask you whether he knew what you meant. Did he give you a funny look? Did you make a joke? Did you say, “I mean, yeah you did. Here and here.”
The giant, I remember now, didn’t want the stars in the sky at all, but those he saw reflected in a broad pool of dark water. He stooped down, so captivated. They were so much closer than those heavenly stars. And so he reached in, unsure of what it would feel like to touch a star; warm or sharp or delicate. He clutched at the water, but the star he thought to find solid in his fist disappeared and then suddenly it multiplied and scattered on those echoing, concentric waves left by his withdrawn arm. Those galloping stars--they made him feel both sad and giddy.
I know it doesn’t matter, but I know that you’re only thinking about her face because you’re wondering about your own--more curious than jealous. And everything's going to be okay, I think, because that giant gulf that you felt between you was actually a sympathizing friend.
That night that you traced constellations on his face, pressing your fingers gently from one eyebrow to the next and then up and across the curve of his forehead and back down along his chin, did you actually begin to see stars? I know what it’s like. I’ve been there myself. You feel so light and warm it’s like you could be planet-hopping--visiting soft, puffy lands where fat pixies spoon-feed you the gaudiest butterflies that even still are tussling in your stomach. But, now, the feeling isn’t so much light and warm as it is heavy and nervous, right? There’s been a certain sadness inside since he last said goodbye. I know that you tried not to feel like that, but I also know that you couldn’t help but get carried away and that you’d forget your feet and that you’d lose yourself amongst those stars. It’s like that with stargazing sometimes. You get so entranced that when you look back down again, you find your feet are at least a yard away from where you began, and even further away from where he was standing. And when you look back up at the stars, they seem different, don’t they?
When you finally turned off the light that night, your head wasn’t cradled in that shallow hollow between his shoulder and his chest the way you thought it would be, was it? Instead, your back was facing him. Your body, curled, small, and a little cold. His body, spread out across the rest of the bed--warm, comfortable, solitary. A giant could have been sleeping between you there was so much distance. Were you still seeing stars then? And if you were, was it their brightness that kept you up? Or was it something else? Was it the giant breathing down your neck? There’s a story, isn’t there, about a giant who plucks stars from the sky? Does he burn his hands when he touches them? Does it hurt? Does he flinch?
You told me that you told him that night, “You’ve touched me.” And I forgot to ask you whether he knew what you meant. Did he give you a funny look? Did you make a joke? Did you say, “I mean, yeah you did. Here and here.”
The giant, I remember now, didn’t want the stars in the sky at all, but those he saw reflected in a broad pool of dark water. He stooped down, so captivated. They were so much closer than those heavenly stars. And so he reached in, unsure of what it would feel like to touch a star; warm or sharp or delicate. He clutched at the water, but the star he thought to find solid in his fist disappeared and then suddenly it multiplied and scattered on those echoing, concentric waves left by his withdrawn arm. Those galloping stars--they made him feel both sad and giddy.
I know it doesn’t matter, but I know that you’re only thinking about her face because you’re wondering about your own--more curious than jealous. And everything's going to be okay, I think, because that giant gulf that you felt between you was actually a sympathizing friend.
