there were glow-in-the-dark plastic stars on your ceiling. you told me that when you were on acid they looked incredible, like you were god and they were tiny galaxies you had created. galaxies filled with small things.
i told you about the time i saw a dead duck in the road, and lost my virginity. i said i wasn't sure which was more important, but you said that obviously the duck was more important because that was a life, however tiny, taken forever from this small galaxy, carelessly. you turned on belle & sebastian and we were very quiet.
in the two seconds after 'the stars of track & field' ended and before the second song that no one knows started, i asked if we could go for a walk. you waited a few moments and silently agreed. we slipped out the front door and i tried to hold your hand, but you snapped it away quickly. i didn't ask why.
outside the sky was very clear, when i looked up my mind was swimming through tiny stars. i looked for the north star but i didn't remember enough from ninth grade earth science to find it. i asked you and you said you didn't know and asked why i cared. i said i didn't, i was just curious, i was always just curious. we passed strip malls and 7-11s and i leaned closer to you, frightened by all of the fluorescent light.
my head was a galaxy filled with small things. i thought everyone was like that, living more inside themselves than outside, never completely sharing themselves with other people because the time just never felt appropriate. it seemed impolite to bare your soul at a dinner party. i looked up at the sky again.
there was a long pause as we passed into a stretch of sidewalk where no other people were out, and i couldn't hear any cars in the distance. a small bright spot was flying across the sky. i pointed to it and said it was a shooting star. you said it was just an airplane. i said we should wish on it anyway. you agreed in a bored voice. i closed my eyes and wondered if we made the same wish.
