my god, it’s full of stars
Anthony Citrano
It’s night. The street is mostly empty, and you’re walking home without hurry. There’s a quiet, almost sad song playing on the private radio station in your brain; its slow beat accompanies each of your footfalls. You sigh. Your mood is rainy, but there’s not a cloud in sight to help you along. If you were anywhere else, outside of this city at least, you’d be glad for the lack of rain, and you’d tilt your head back and be dazzled, watching the sky sparkle. But you’re in the city, and you know that if you bothered tilting your head back, all you’d see would be haze. So you walk some more, then pause, wondering for the first time all night where you put your keys. You fish in one pocket as you stare absently at the doorway across the street, then reach into the other, fingers grazing the comforting cold jagged metal of your house key. You turn to walk again, then see it: the window, full of twinkling lights. It’s your first smile of the evening. You saw your stars after all.
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