Bleak Stars

The year I turned 18, I stayed up past midnight
Wrestling tiredness, to witness the god of night bless the bleak stars
I stayed up, to wish on stars that he would come to know me
The boy with brown eyes, like messy clay that sticks on your shoes when it rains
There was something washed away about him, a silent form of resignation
But still I wanted every bit of him, his trauma, his stories and halfhearted smiles
I was always a decade younger when he came around
Mini-panic attacks, a shaky voice and sweaty palms
That year I ran into him often on corridors, his half smile in place
We went to dinner twice or thrice, I misremember
He told me he loved how I collected broken china and had 2am showers
I told him how I loved his cold hands on my skin, how they felt under my bra
He always knew how to play every nerve on my body like some pianist
Oshun herself poured us droplets from her water
I gave him all of me; we shared my broken china and 2am showers without him asking
I later learnt he had 3am showers with the olive skinned foreign exchange student
I hope he loved how she collected mac lipsticks by colors
That year, I wished for a lot of wrong things, I should have asked for clarity.


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