All Waking
Hailey Donahue, 12
color pencil drawing
eyes of mirth. âAh, but you deserve no less.â Their feet move in synchronized steps that neither of them have memorized, but as graceful as the curling tides that Nova controls with the swish of her wrist, it works. They dance, and the stars are the only audience in the sky to bear witness. Nova is the silver to Elioâs gold. She is the moon to his sun, the destruction to his creation, the chaos to his peace. Wherever Elio goes, Nova follows, glowing a pearly white as long as the sun lives to beam directly at her. He burns for her, after all. No mortal could ever rival Elio in the way that he reveres Nova. It doesnât matter the fantastical statues they build, the sculptures and paintings hung up in homes, and the bountiful sacrifices sailors make to ensure a peaceful ocean. Elio worships her as a lover should. It is said that the moon could not exist without the sun, but as Elio presses butterfly kisses over the apples of Novaâs cheeks, it is the other way around. Every kiss he brings brands stars into Novaâs skin. By the time itâs over, there are constellations on her cheeks.
No words are to be exchanged. Only the rhythm of gentle kisses and slide of exploring hands. The warmth blossoming in both of their chests like flowers in Spring speaks enough. With each fleeting touch, a new planet is born into the universe, forever orbiting Elio and his moon. Nova and Elio have been the beginning and will be the end. They were not brought by the universe. They are the universe. When the time comes for them to fall like Icarus and his waxen wings from the sky, they will tumble. But they will go together, and today is not that day. âAnd the universe said I love you,â Nova whispers against Elioâs lips with a sweet smile, exuberance illuminating silver skin. âBecause you are love,â comes Elioâs hushed response. It feels fitting. Rays of sunlight pour from his skin. The constellations have aligned. The sun and the moon had created love slow dancing to the symphony of starlight and silence, only fate watching their spectacular performance. If the sun flares brighter than it ever has throughout the ages, and the moon gleams gold, let it be a tale that mortals pass on forever. Alyssa Greco, 11 short story
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