it starts with a star.
she points it out to you,
explains how the clusters all have names,
all have stories we come to know them by.
this one’s called andromeda,
that one’s called perseus.
they’re in love, she says.
they get to be in love forever.
and we’re inclined towards pareidolia,
so sometimes it’s impossible to tell if two lovers are clinging
to the sky or if we see ourselves in the stars.
you tell her this. you tell her you think stars are just stars
and we are just people mapping the earth onto them,
turning those fiery rocks from something alien
into something we can understand.
and she says, but what of magic? what of love? what of always?
these things can only be understood through faith.
but the stars don’t know their stories,
don’t know the families we’ve sorted them into,
don’t know that they have names and faces and bodies.
this one’s a right knee, that one’s a forehead,
these twelve are lovers, these six are nothing.
she tells you to look harder.
you tell her about light pollution.
she tells you you’re not being fair
and maybe she’s right.
you want her to be right.
you want it to be enough to squint up at the stars
and believe that there is a point to all of this.
that like those cosmic pinpricks, this too will become
something beautiful.
