Pinpricks of light, wandering stars gravitating toward a force bigger than their own.
Though frequently perceived as shy and ordinary, small and obtuse, two individuals are running to chase a distant falling. Eyes that forget to keep to their feet, fists clenched are released and raised frantically. Darkness and tangled roots, damp grass and twisty trunks, feet that meet and trip.
I’m sorry, she says abashed, picking up the other’s glasses. I’m chasing a shooting star.
A hand stretches to take what is his, and a smile grows across the face.
So am I, he quietly admits. I can’t let something beautiful die without anyone ever knowing it. It would be a real waste.
Would you catch it with me?