I always thought it was impossible to touch stardust.

But I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.

Stars astonish me. Whenever I see them on the raven-hued, midnight-black nights—sprinkling the inky night with their subtle sparkle—I wonder how they got there and why they are there and how long they’ve been there and how long they’ll stay.

How long will they stay?

I wonder why I’m seeing them, how their minuscule luster so vastly illuminates the night, how I didn’t notice them as much as I do now.

Have they always been this blinding?

When I saw them unexpectedly, I thought they were cool—a lackluster adjective for such an extraordinary entity.  

Oh, look. The stars are out tonight. Pretty.

The stars were an unexpected flash of brilliance, of radiance, of luminance. I loved to look at their light, to feel their light, so I started searching for them in places I knew they wouldn’t be—like the canary-blue midday sky. I didn’t want the stars to ever dim.

I don’t want the stars to ever dim. How long will they stay?

I star-searched in the middle of the day. I wanted them to be closer. I wanted to stargaze at noon; I didn’t want to wait for the darkness in order to see them shine. But I knew it was impossible, inconceivable, insurmountable.

One day, and I don’t know how I achieved the unattainable, I was stargazing in the sunshine. The shimmering rays of the sun veiled the stars in a cloak of gold, but the sun didn’t hold my gaze. I paid no attention to the sun—I was looking at the stars. I could look sunshine in the eyes without being blinded, but as soon as I saw the stars, I needed sunglasses to dim the luminance.

Looking the sun in the eyes without squinting, I shakily swept away the cloak and basked in the brightness that ensued.

Because it’s not the sun that illuminates me—it’s the stars.

Immediately, I felt stardust.

I felt stardust that day I inexplicably achieved the unattainable. I feel stardust when I look at the stars, something that I didn’t know was possible until I unveiled the cloak of gold that disguised them. I watched—felt—the gold shimmer overtake my soul that day.  

I always thought it was impossible to feel stardust.

How can you feel something like that? What does it even mean to “feel stardust?”

I don’t know how I feel it, why I feel it, what it means, or how long the feeling will stay. How long the stars will stay.

I’m in love with the feeling I get when I look at the stars. Stardust. How long will it stay?

I dread the day I’ll look at the midnight-black sky and see no stars. I dread the day I won’t be able to stargaze in the sunshine anymore. I dread and I dread and I dread, because I don’t know how long they’ll stay.

I don’t know how long the stars will stay; I don’t know how long the feelings will stay; I don’t know how long I’ll continue to achieve the unattainable.

And then I held hands with stardust.

You are stardust. When I’m with you, I feel stardust. You are the stars I look for in the middle of the day, and the stars I never want to disappear from the inky night.

How long will you stay?