Leave Me Your Stardust

In this life, we began in the alley. It was all very common – I was a spectator and you were a singer of a band. You still sang remarkably, were still beautiful, although you do not remember. After the show I saw you making your way to the back door, and I had to move past the crowd, go around the place to find you.

I remained far from you as you picked a lighter and a cigarette from your pocket. You seemed to be busy, drowning in your thoughts, failing to tuck away the strands of hair falling on your eyes. You cannot blame me for loving you so dearly.

It took a while to gather my strength, to finally stand by your side. You did not take notice at first, or perhaps you did not choose to. Your blue eyes were intent on the smoldering tip that dimmed and flared, as if staring at it for too long could make it last any longer.

I observed the smoke from your lips, and hesitated. It danced so freely in the night, so sharply in contrast to my tensed hands. I had no idea where to place them, and perhaps that was what made you look at me. I know how we really began, and you do not, yet I seemed to be more baffled than you were.

“Are you lost?” you asked.

I took a breath. “No.”

There was a chilly moment that sliced through the air, and both of us did not speak. It seemed that our jackets did nothing to save us from the cold. I wondered where your women were. It was too late for me to realise you wanted to be alone, but now was my only chance.

“You sang very well,” I said.

Your eyes traced the path of your smoke, coming to terms with something I was unaware of. “Thanks.”

We did not speak again. I could sense your muscles tightening underneath your clothes, your hands shaking a little but enough to give me the idea. It was selfish, but I still wanted you to talk. I wasn't simply letting you go.

“Can I?” I never smoked before, and I was anxious that my request, or that even my very presence, might have displeased you.

“Ran out. Sorry,” you said, before turning away.

And I was right. I did not know what I could say more by then. I did not know this you before me, but the look in those eyes were unmistakable. Perhaps I arrived at the wrong time.

“Sorry,” I said, not too loud. I walked away from you, from this alley, from where we would end, too.

But you stopped me by the wrist.

“Hey, you didn't do anything.”

I did, but you did not know that. I do not know if you have to. I was petrified, with myself and with you. But all that did not seem to matter when you laughed, as though you were who I've always known. “I really ran out. Let me buy you a drink instead.”