the sun, the moon, the stars
My mother told me I was like the sun.
She smiled back then, all soft crimson lips and half-closed eyes. I remember I used to look at her with a sort of reverence when she let her hair down. It was smooth, dark auburn cascading down pale freckled shoulders, and when she was in an especially good mood she’d let me braid it.
My father told me I was like the moon.
He didn’t drink back then, but I’m not sure if I remember a time when he didn’t spend long hours at the office. Where my mother’s spoken simile was a compliment, his was an exasperation, the result of me spending long evenings away in the city. I took the insult and forged it as my own.
My girlfriend says that I’m like a star.
She smiles like it’s a blessing and drinks tea instead of bitter whiskey. Her hair is tightly coiled ebony, and her skin is painted in smooth hues of bronze and gold. She’s never been a fan of similes, though, so I ask her why; the words spilling out of my lips before I can second-guess them.
“Because you’re my light in the night sky.” She answers; as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. I giggle at that, my cheeks flushing a pale rose, but the way my arms are tightly wrapped around her betray the pang that echoes through my chest.
She hums a half-familiar song as we sit there, and I find myself looking out the window of our small studio apartment. The sky is a deep indigo, all remnants of sunshine having dipped below the horizon hours before, but I can see a precious few dots of light above the pollution of the city.
“I think you’re Betelgeuse,” I say, my voice a sleepy whisper, and she smiles softly in return.
“Then you’re Bellatrix.” She runs a hand through my hair, watching the stars slowly fly by overhead as my eyes drift shut. “That way we’ll always be holding hands.”