If every time I thought of you, a star fell, the sky would be empty.
Confession time.
In my mid-teens, back when I was wide-eyed and idealistic, I believed in true love (puppy love, actually, and happy endings).
I fell head over heels.
Hook, line and sinker.
The whole nine yards.
He was maybe seventeen. A university freshman. His eyes were engagingly warm when he smiled.
Like a fool, I was happy to even catch a glimpse of him. So happy my face would break into a huge smile.
You may think it weird that I would dream of someone with whom I've never even talked, but already, I liked him too much. I know. It was romantically adolescent.
At night, when I looked up and saw a star through a big rip in the clouds, I'd make a wish.
I'd imagine us walking in the night into a distant future, feeling something leaping inside at the notion that it could be the beginning of something especial.
I'd dream of us whispering sweet nothings, gazing directly at each other as we did so. Like in the movies.
The simple sweetness of a captured moment, so potent with the promise of stars.
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