I know. I know the definition of cliche.
Cliche, noun. A phrase or opinion that is overused and betrays a lack of original thought.
I've read it fifteen times in the past hour, every hour, since approximately ten years ago when my lips touched his and I was shoved into a shuttle and shot into space.
So weird, space. Not actual space. But... well, let's call it space. The connotation... of space.
My mind is space. My heart is space. He calls me Galaxy- I guess that's why.
"That's so cliche," he laughed, pushing my shoulder as we walked down the road in our matching sneakers.
It had just rained. I remember it. We always went out right after rain because he always ended up on my doorstep, thinking I was crying. Talking about some "it rains when angels cry" shit like that.
I loved it, though. I liked being treated like a king. I still do. But not in the same way.
Then, before that fateful night under the smokey stars and heavy air, I liked the attention. I liked the brushing of the back of our hands and the weird songs from the 1600s he'd sing that would get stuck in my head- not the lyrics, I didn't know the lyrics. Just the tune. And I'd try to keep up with the jokes he'd pull, but I'd get confused and upset, but he always did love my upset face.
Still does, I'd say.
I think people have a perception of love that isn't there. They see the movies and blame the fake heart eyes and crotch-kisses on love, but it's not. That's lust. And, at best, fondness.
But, of course, right after they shoot that steamy sex scene, or they kiss over the same lines five times over, they laugh to themselves. They say, "Good job!" and clap the other on the back and pull on their robes and look to the director and ask if it was okay.
You don't do this in real life.
"At best, fondness" is, in real life, kissing someone and being disappointed. It's giving them a smile and saying, "Cool." It's walking away after a kiss- no, being able to walk by yourself.
Do you want to know what love is? Really?
Love isn't in the form of kisses, or "love-making" (which is irrelevant, because the love should already be there), or in the weird, quirky things that the hipster kids do in the movies, but seem to do perfectly.
(Cliche, noun. A phrase or opinion that is overused and betrays a lack of original thought.)
Love is... well...
Love is being an entire Galaxy to a star lover.
"Morgan, I'm going to go to space one day and bring you back something," he said, knocking his shoulder against mine, "You're going to like it."
"Am I?" I shook my head, my lips being pulled by some kind of magnetic force to his head. He didn't even have to pull me there- I just did it.
"Yep," he smiled over at me and grinned, "I'm going to come back to you after. That's present enough, isn't it?"
I remember rolling my eyes, for that one. The funny thing was, I knew he wasn't going to go to space. That was our little joke. Our little inside joke that we'd tell, and the science teacher would be so proud of him, and he'd send a little glance over to me and wink as he said, "Yeah, I'm pretty fond of the galaxies."
Space was the high after a good laugh. Space was, for us, holding hands for the hell of it, and being shocked after tripping- so much so that I don't notice for a few minutes that I was caught by my astrologer in neutral toned corduroy.
Space was us when we were together, platonically. The kisses, yeah, they were a bonus. But the real anti-gravity happened when we were being the just-friends we had been for a while.
"You're too cocky," I said, my eyes casting back out to the night sky as we sat on our special hill, the grass still damp against my old jeans, "I don't know what I see in you."
That was my affection. My way of showing affection, anyway. Half-hearted asshole stuff. That was me.
Reid's special Galaxy. Boy, did he know how to pick 'em.
"You only see me for my body," he said, only partially joking as he pulled me close into his side. He threw a hand up into the air, his pointer finger in line with the big lightbulb in the sky, "I'm going to take you to the moon someday, Derek. Just you wait."
I scoffed, "Sure, pretty boy."
"No! Stop that," he took my hands and rubbed his cold thumbs across the backs of them, "I'm serious."
There's this weird thing about love that I don't understand yet.
Reid didn't love me, you see. No, he loved the stars. He was dating the stars, and I was the hobby. No, it wasn't the other way around. And I'm not mad, or upset, or even disappointed. Because Reid was, and is, a passionate boy, and he's passionate about everything he does.
Even little hobbies, like me.
"I know you're serious," I replied, tilting my head to the side and giving him a smile that could, maybe if I tried hard enough, warm us both up. It was late fall, anyway. Close to my sister's boyfriend's birthday. I don't know why I always remembered that.
"Then don't laugh at me."
"I won't."
The first time he called me Galaxy was at my house, on my mother's birthday. He had gone around the sun another time, and he wouldn't stop badgering me about it. I was, no doubt, the receptacle for his complaints. But that gave me more opportunities to be the king- which I liked.
Anyway, he pulled this little slab of wood from his pocket and placed it in my hand, and I almost got mad at him, but he flipped it over; there, on the other side, was a beautifully painted sky with purples and blues and little dots of white places in special places over the ridges and curves of this awkward piece of wood. It looked beautiful.
He said, "No, I didn't make this. I saw it at the market the other day with Fran and thought of you."
"Why would you think of me?" I had asked, "You're the one with the fetish."
He had just rolled his eyes and pulled me into a hug, kissing my forehead, "Yeah, but it's cool to have two of my favorite things with me at one time. Even during the day."
I pulled the wood from my pocket and stared at it, my free hand brushing through his hair.
"You still have it," he said.
"You thought I'd lose it?" I shook my head, "Have faith."
"No, I just thought you'd leave it at home, silly."
"I bring it everywhere," I shrugged, even though I knew it probably made him a bit sentimental.
"You do?"
And that was the first time I'd seen my stargazer cry.
And, yes, I know the definition of cliche. I read it every second I get the chance to, and especially before bed.
I settle down next to him every night and slip my ring off my finger, placing it delicately on our nightstand right next to his. And then I write it down a few times, glancing over at his peaceful face every once and awhile to get a fresh image- as if he changes every time I look away.
He might as well. I feel like he's a new man every morning. Of course, that may just be how he is.
"Galaxy," he mumbles, an arm thrown out to grasp onto my arm, "You almost done?"
"I think I'll settle for ten, tonight."
I set my journal next to the rings and turn off the lamp, slipping under the warm covers and allowing him to pull me into his side, situating me just like he wants.
"Let me see your hand," he says.
I feel his breath on my wrist as I hold my palm upward, my small star tattoo somehow visible through the dark.
He kisses it. I feel the smile from here, the shifting of dense yet light air giving me chills.
"Do I still get to take you to the moon?" he asks.
I shake my head and smile, pecking his star tattoo on his left wrist.
"I'm completely stellar right here on Earth with you."