Starlight

He begged her to go back to bed. No, she wanted to stargaze for a moment longer. She always thought it was such a waste for all that light to travel for so long, only to be ignored by the sleeping people. That starlight danced upon her face, making her eyes sparkle. He watched that starlight catch in her hair which brushed her shoulders when she drew them up in a fit of laughter at his jokes. That starlight that projected a memory in his mind. It replayed. He bent and bent and broke. And she’s sitting on the windowsill with her feet dipping out into the cool spring evening. He’s lying in bed, trying to ignore the starlight painting her figure by the window. They’re trying to ignore the divide. He can’t fall asleep. He doesn’t want the memories. He’s frustrated and she’s just sitting there, sitting there fine, bathing in the starlight. And suddenly he’s yelling, goddamnit, why can’t she just come back to bed like a normal person. She jumps. She slips. Fingers grasping at the starlight, it can’t hold her any longer. It glints off his irises, a cold regret filling them. Her shadowy form crumpled in the front yard.

They buried her in the daylight.