meteors

but are only dirty snowballs. thick masses of space dust disintegrating with every kilometer they burn forward. death in progression, a purely destructive show of the laws of physics. a shower is a misnomer: you're lucky to catch one or two in the corner of your eye. planes are more reliable to catch. hardly any of this is romantic. it's an excuse to sit in the cold, snuggle, and incite intimate conversations with another human being with the pathetic hopes of something more by the end of the night -- a touch, a kiss, ruffled sheets. beneath the infinite darting pupil of the heavens, no topic is too far-fetched: all words are fair and invited. what better is this than the golden desert, the horizon jittering with nuclear sun rays? what better is this than a stinking swamp, its frothy green surfaces alive with microbial activity? what better is this than the gray cityscape, neon car lights making an ant-line down a freeway?

so i didn't want to go see these meteors, even if i was invited.

but i can't help but wonder if you're watching them as well, and with who, and if you're sitting in the cold, snuggling and inciting conversation. and i can't help but wonder if we'll catch the same one in the corner of our eyes, even though we're separated miles and hearts apart. and i can't help but wonder if you'll remember only a glimmer of our memories when you catch that meteor that i just caught because i swear to god that for every damned star up there, i could name at least one amazing night, one amazing memory i had with you -- memories without the aid of meteors.

for a second i'm tempted to accept an invitation to watch the speeding space dust, and pretend to be a romantic again, just to entertain the thought that we'd be wishing on the same one. for some odd, twisted reason, that thought would make me feel better, knowing that we'd be watching the same meteor. for a fleeting second, i could pretend that you were me and i was you and we were one and that would make the entire night of phoniness so, so much more valuable.

but i decided not to, for these thoughts are just as falsely romantic as the burning rocks we gaze upward to watch. they mean nothing: they are what they are, nothing more, nothing less. i don't know what you think and you don't know what i think. and just like us, they disintegrate with every kilometer they blaze forward, dying in their own progression until only a thick, icy core is left.

i want to believe i've burnt out, having only my icy core leftover: let those wishes remain wishes, i tell myself. tonight i will stay in, shut my curtains, and sleep then.

but alas, those wishes turn into dreams and i leave consciousness with just a heavy heart as i entered it.

i suppose i'm more than just an icy core.