The Starry Night
Vincent van Gogh, 1889.
The most memorable moments with you were not the big ones.
They were the minuscule, insignificant ones – the ones that most people usually overlook and forget first.
We were staring up at the same lights that were emitted from the gentle moon with the added hues of the street lamps and swimming with the current of silence together. Being quiet was comforting with you, because there was a sense of belonging, just like two perfectly fitting pieces from a huge puzzle.
These were those meant to be instances they write in unrealistic fiction novels that truly etch their irreplaceable marks in my mind. Your face, your silhouette, and the words we’ve exchanged may slowly fade from my memory; in fact, they’re morphing into haze now, but the way I felt in these moments were inked in permanently.
We’ve somehow crossed each others’ paths, and then somehow accidentally departed from each others’ tracks. We didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did, all too naturally. Occasionally, I get ambushed and the poignancy of those times pierce me through like a keen blade. There were no hatred, no disagreements, but perhaps only a bittersweet sensation that’s lingering.
Maybe tonight, tomorrow, or on some random night we’d be glancing up at the same starry night at the same time. The difference this time is that it we will not be with each other anymore. The views will never be the same again.