Sta.sh
The dim glow of the restaurants lights cast shadows on your face as you tell me you hate the moon. Of course I ask why. And of course you reply in a nonchalant tone, saying because it's so close, yet farther away than anything else, and that no one will ever be able to have it.
***
We are at the science museum, the astronomy section. As we stroll along Venus, you rant about the planets, shouting about how they don't exist. I ask you what you mean and you say they're a conspiracy theory courtesy of the government so we'll believe we're not alone in a vast, empty nothingness.
***
As the Ferris wheel spins around its axis, you ask me what I wish on. I answer with eleven eleven and shooting stars. You shake your head, click your tongue, tell me you're ashamed of me. You'll never wish on shooting stars, you say, because they're dying. You ask me how they got that way, got so helpless and hopeless that the only way they could end their pain was to fall out of the sky. In response I give a pathetic I don't know, but the truth is, I wish I knew how they did it.
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