To the boy with artist's hands,

from the girl with dreamer's eyes.

She imagines walking up to him before he turned to leave. He'd smile slowly at her.

"Do you wish on them?" she'd ask him.

"Wish on shooting stars?" he'd ask and shrug. "Do you?"

"No," she'd reply in that cynical way of hers, eyes still trained on the sky. "Shooting stars," she'd say thoughtfully. "They're just beautiful tragedies staining the heavens with silver suicides, aren't they?" (Don't let me be right.)

And he would look back towards the satin-cloud white-fire-prickle inky-velvet of the night sky. "Bet you wished on that shooting star though, huh?" he would say almost teasingly. (Almost.)

"No," she'd say again, words delicate and careful on her tongue. She would turn to look at him and see stars glittering cold and cruel and beautiful (like truth, darling, like truth) in the infinite tenderness of his eyes. And her breath would catch.

"I don't know what I'd wish for," she'd say quietly. (You. Us.)

And the stars would glow a little more softly in her vision (like denial, darling, like denial).

(It's too bad he isn't a poetry kind of boy and she isn't a daring sort of girl).

Author's Note

I have no idea what compelled me to write something so cliche.

Regardless, enjoy.

Reviews

[Alicia™]

It's wonderfully written, and I don't think it's cliche. I loved the wording, and the contrast in certain places. My favorite line is "they're just beautiful tragedies staining the heavens with silver suicides, aren't they?" Absolutely beautiful. Great job!