She is the Rising Star

I open my eyes. I am readying myself for the morning. A golden cheekbone lined by the rising sun, beautiful in its simplicity. I touch it, once, her skin warm under my fingers, a reminder of how alive we are. How young we are. We are teenagers. Our hands are clumsy, too big for our skinny limbs, not sure where to go or what to think. These hands hold pens, and books, and dreams. We discuss the future in vivid colours, full of blossoming hope of what it could hold. Neither of us say it, our lips tied by the thin string of fear, but our dreams involve each other. Neither of us knows what love means, our kisses fuelled by wandering hands and inexperienced tongues, but I know the lines of her face better than I know the words of my textbook. Neither of us knows anything, but we know each other. We grow, as all things do, messily, with anger and lust and tears. She holds the neck of a bottle of beer, her head titled back, laughing into the night, her cheeks flushed. She is brighter than any star, and I wonder if I could replicate the jewels in her eyes, and make them into a jewel for her finger. I smile, small, and take another sip. I know that she is the one. Our wedding is small, but loud, screams of joy echoing from every lively corner. Her mother gives me a talk, my mother gives me a heart attack. All I can feel is the creases of her hand enveloped in mine, and the sweet press of her lips on my face. I do. "You do nothing!" She screams at me, waving at the dirty dishes lining every corner of our rotting kitchen