I think about it a lot. I think about you a lot. The way we used to laugh on the swing set, under the stars. Hoping one day we could swing high enough and become one. I told you, you didn’t need to worry about becoming one because your body was already a constellation pumping stardust through your veins; your fingertips magic. You smiled, something you did so rarely. I could see the tears in your eyes, but had already learned not to ask why, so I kept swinging. Higher and higher until my toes dipped themselves in the ocean of angels.

You dared me to jump and told me I could fly. So I did. I released the chainlink security blanket of the swing and allowed myself to soar. I crashed to the gravel, bones cracking, eyes watering. You rushed to my side, held me in your arms and told me for a moment you saw me fly.

That was the first night you kissed me and I could finally say I knew what the galaxies tasted like.

A broken wrist and bruised ribcage ended up being the least painful thing you put me through.

One night, you went to the swing set alone, I was still recovering from my injuries and wasn’t able to go with you. You swung, higher and higher, trying desperately to dip your feet into the moonlight. You jumped o, just as I once had, but instead of landing on the ground, you kept flying. Higher and higher until you reached your favourite constellation.

I go to the swing set every so often and stare up at the sky. I do not swing for I don’t need to submerge myself in starlight — your soul is up there, my favourite constellation, but I already know what the galaxies taste like.