Empty memories

I imagine him as a boy, just a boy. He’s just a boy. But he can love like no other and his love feels like velvet on the fingertip and a black cat’s fur against the skin. It’s sweet and mysterious and lovely and it makes you melt, with the pain and wobbly knees. The moon approves of his love by casting its light on his star-washed hair. The night approves with a dark sheet settling over the world and he thinks it’s absolutely spectacular. It’s finally calm. His lips of nude wonder and soft velvet whisper the words of centuries ago, sermons long lost, to the sky, which solemnly listens; it had listened ages before when they were created. To hear a ghost say it was their first, though. He was gone, gone with the wind and the moon traveling across the sky, with the seasons coming and going. His absence was almost as dreadful as that of the stars - or maybe even moreso. His earthy eyes didn’t sparkle anymore when music was mentioned, or small mice or orange dawns or purple dusks. Dark chocolate eyes can’t combat the glare of the beady void, staring through a Halloween mask. There is a good and a bad to the night. There is a good and a bad to the boy.

He whispered to the sky, and the sky whispered back.

“Will you be here tomorrow?”