Dear Stars,
I have a bone to pick with you. You see, when I was six, I called myself the nowhere boy... and I coloured myself a soulmate. I made her on crumpled sheets, with broken pieces of crayon, on a playground that was too busy wondering whether growing up entailed stealing their mother's cigarettes and their father's dirty magazines (I suppose I was already wise enough to know that growing up meant choosing one of the many ways of breaking yourself in two.)
I hope you remember her, stars...she was important to me (My best friend threw that drawing away on my seventh birthday and told me that someone like me was not supposed to have such dreams.).
She had hair as ebony as deep onyx and a smile that never grew up (Peter Pan would have been proud). She was magic in soul form, and smelled like cinnamon and the earth after it has rained. Her eyes rivaled a lions on the best of his youth, her words were story shaped. Her skin was an ink coloured canvas of wonder and even in crayon she was a sight of awe.
I wished upon YOU, stars, when I was six years old but I suppose nowhere boys have no business wishing upon stars that have had homes for a million years. Because almost twenty years later I am still the same old annoying nowhere boy. And I suppose I hide it better now but even crayon made soulmates can see that.
