He wonders if love stories worth hearing always begin with constellations. His hopes and fears reflected in the pale faces of the night, as his ears and heart open like a music box to the rhythm and lyric of her breathing. She lies beside him in the grass; a dark violet green blanket for their picnic of distance, their feast of indecision. The blinking diamonds, which fill her sleepy eyes, become a haze of silver dust to him. His entire soul focused on the space between their hands. How a centimetre closer would join the cracks in their side-palms together. The lines would meet to draw a tissue paper map, chartering stormy seas of weekends apart, islands of respite found in a phone-call and mountain ranges of tranquillity found in their breath; evaporating into the chill air above them. These maps he would keep in a leather-bound journal, the position of the moon the night they first met, engraved on the front.
He wonders if the gods ever look down, below their misty breaths, to witness reincarnations of the same love story. He wonders if it was human inspiration which led Zeus’ bolt of ink in his Milky Way dot to dot. He wonders if the love stories worth hearing always begin with constellations. He wonders if she continues to inhale stardust, will she take flight?