the quiet boys

I,  the cosmonaut, am floating in the eternal abyss of space. All of my stars are fading, running away, and I hover aimlessly. My ship has been damaged beyond repair, scattered across the stars. There is nothing I can do but follow your eyes, two pinpoints in the devouring darkness, two northern stars. And then my hand touches something other than my own emptiness. 

A quiet boy from a quiet town, knows not where the path ends. He dare not tread onto the gravel without a name, dare not investigate where the fence post ends. In a quiet town nobody speaks of the horizon, if they do it is in wicked tongues, and their small abodes are entombed in layers of colors and trinkets. Speak and the quiet boy will listen intently. Cry and the quiet boy will cry with you. 

A quiet boy knows the ends of the universe. A quiet boy carries secrets of the farthest reaches of humanity, and when you hold its hand, caress the skin, nurture and bathe it in unfiltered affection - a planet finally terraforms into one. Galactic discoveries underneath the darkness of sky and the darkness under a ceiling uncover that one sleeping with their shadow. 

A hug will say:

“To nurture the quietness one must nurture their soul. Treat the body as a rare animal, hone it, know yourself. Establish your own kingdom that is your body, become a dictator of your singular existence, if need be. Built your own story and the loneliness will be apart of the play. Be there for yourself and others will match your stride. I love this, I love you.”  

A kiss will say: 

“Stay with me.”