Ephemeral

Once there was a poet and an astronomer, and they did everything they could.

The poet once wrote of love, as poets often do, writing of the things they think they cannot have. The astronomer looked to the skies, and saw the same white stars, cold and far away, ghostlike in their distance.

And then they met each other.

She was soft and warm, everything stars should be. He was kind and genteel, everything love should be. In each other, they found exactly what they needed.

It was slow, at first

The astronomer tried not to notice her. He ran from her like he'd run from everything, from his home, from his family. Love is not to be a figment of your life, his father had once said. There is no love for men like you and I. Only power, wealth, and prestige. The astronomer wanted more. He ran from his father, but the words of one's father are more affective, more ingrained than one might think. He ran from his poet, too.

The poet did not chase him. He was beautiful, like a Grecian sculpture, a worthy muse of any great artist. She was nothing. No great beauty, no good name. She knew this, because this was what her mother said. Dreams are not for you and I. We will never have what we truly desire. Do not waste your time chasing dreams you can never catch. A mother's words do not fade easily.

There was no hunt, no chase, no capture of the prize. The astronomer realized the poet was not chasing, so he slowed. The poet saw that he was within reach, so she stretched out her hand.

It was slow at the end as well.

They lay atop the roof of a great big house, one passed down by right of sons to the astronomer. He glanced at her as she traced images into the stars he had never seen before, and watched them come alive. She saw him admire those tiny, twinkling jewels set into deep velvet sky, his smile joyous, and she could suddenly name that feeling she'd spent a thousand words trying to describe. It was all in his eyes as he turned to face her, eyes like the moon.

The stars were different now. The astronomer saw his poet in them. They danced and whirled and laughed like she did, and he fell in love with his work again.

The poet's writings grew maudlin and grim, as poets often write about the things they think they cannot have. There was no more mention of love, for she knew what it was now. Her words could no longer describe it. It had become ineffable.

And in that great big house passed from father to son, set alone in the middle of the moor, they found in each other exactly what they needed.

But there was another.

He was no poet, no astronomer. He was a man like any other. Ungifted, ordinary. There is nothing wrong with ordinary men, but ordinary men will always want more than they have. They envy, as all men are wont to do, but for some, it is all consuming, enraging.

This man tried. Tried to fend off the guilt, the rage, the envy. But demons are powerful things, and sometimes, they win.

The poet and the astronomer welcomed the man into their large, lonely home. A childhood friend of the astronomer, this man was. Always second to his brilliance, his beauty. Second in his love, as well, for this man loved the astronomer with all his heart, with the fury of a roaring flame. But the astronomer loved, like the gentle tides, a girl who loved like the lightest breeze.

The man could not hate the poet, this compassionate girl with her silver sweet words and kindness. Perhaps he even grew to love her in his own way. But all hatred must go somewhere, and so he hated himself.

The astronomer, too busy with his stars and starlit poet, did not notice his best friend, his brother in arms, walking that edge that so many walk. But the poet noticed. Poets always notice.

And so she packed up her maudlin words, and silver kindness, and she left that house in the moors by nightfall, while her astronomer peered endlessly at the stars above her.

Poets often give more than they take.

The astronomer grew as cold as the moon in her absence, and the man tried, oh, how he tried, to keep the astronomer warm.

It was not his fault the astronomer desired the stars more than the sun.

The astronomer tried. He did what he could, giving kisses, touches, soft words of kindness taken from someone they'd both loved in different ways. It wasn't enough for either of them. And yet, they kept trying.

The man tried, and tried, until the trying broke him. He knew, deep inside, that the astronomer would never love him the way he loved the poet.

And so, he, too, left that great big house in the middle of the moors, not by road, but by rivers of red.

Demons are powerful things. Sometimes, they win.

The astronomer loved this man, despite what one might think. And so he grieved. For four long years, he grieved.

He did not look at the stars once.

One day, he heard the soft sound of footsteps on carpet, the syncopation that could only belong to one.

He looked at the stars that night, his telescope guided by a gentle, ink-stained hand. And in it's eye, he saw a star he'd swear for the rest of his life hadn't been there before, winking red and gold back at him.

And atop the old roof of the great big house in the middle of the moors, his poet lay a hand on his arm and the moon and stars found in each other exactly what they needed. And from some far beyond, the sun watched and smiled.

Once, there was a poet and an astronomer, and they did everything they could.