The sky above stretches into infinity, expanding in blue waves of desaturated hues, boundlessly, all upon his eyes, limitless, with no end and no beginning, impossible to explain, impossible to attain and yet, if he reaches out for it, hands up, he feels like capturing it – to contain between his fingers the intangibility of the firmament, the heaps of pink clouds passing by, veiling softly the vast extension of pure nothingness.

Instead of trapping the sky, he holds his hand, his eyes filled with bluish colours, pupils adjusting to the diminishing light brought by the stars that are tilting its beams down to them, silvering the space where they are, shadowing in white and black the soil below their backs. His fingers crawl around his own, a tight, solid grip, like a promise to never let go, filling the air with words that don’t need to be said out loud – the meaning already creeping beneath his flesh, pulsing through his veins like flowers blooming, building homes inside of his heart. He feels his gaze falling on him, cheeks blushing – but the world is colour-blind and so he is sure he won’t notice, won’t see the twitching at the edge of his mouth, ready to explode into a smile that contains the world. It is a muddling feeling, a beautiful feeling too, to be able to be like this, arms thrown to the night, trees canopying the sky, leaves revolving, swirling, falling on his tips, on top of his forehead – cold, soft, butterfly wings caressing his skin, like his lips kissing him gently, peppering him like fire over the rain.

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