// SHOOTING STAR // lyrics and song belong to Elton John ~I'm still in love with you oh shooting star And when I start to wonder where you are There you are, there you are, shooting star~ It’s been so long--four years you think. At least. Four long years that you’ve gone without seeing him. In person at least. He’s done well, far better than you expected. Scratch that. Far better than you’d hoped.  Not that you wanted him to fail. You never wanted him to do anything other than fly. You simply hoped he’d fly with you. There was still that love. That undeniable infinite love that sat at the bottom of your heart with a huge wall all around it. Never let anyone else in, and never let the love out. ********************* You bought your ticket online--an anonymous buy with your credit card in between contract signings and a new assistant who was sobbing under the pressure. Pressure you felt everyday. Increasing pressure that you yourself took on after N Sync ended. It had been time, you all realized that summer day. An amicable yet tearful break--an announcement to the fans who stood solidly by your side--a final tour that sold out in minutes. You took his hands after that last show and he told you he could breath for the first time in forever. Of course you knew what he meant. The pressures of the group were gone--and now he could fly. Solo. You had doubts, though, didn’t you? Doubts that your relationship could weather the emotional aspect. You voiced those doubts but he was always really good at kissing them away. He reassured you by arranging two weeks in Tortola, and looking back, you know it was the best two weeks of your life. Because after that, the pressure grew. And the relationship faded into roads that split. Different things you both wanted. Arguments and distance that capped the love ruthlessly. You longed for a break from the spotlight. He was lost without it. ~You may have seen me at the early show I sat and watched you from the second row Oh you were mine long ago way back when Even then we both knew you'd go far oh shooting star~ You wonder, as you make your way into the arena, if he’s still the same kid you met so many years before--if he still favors cereal--if he still sleeps on his stomach. You wonder if he smells the same--and if he still chews on his thumb. Of course the magazines show you what he looks like at twenty-five. Still sexy only more mature. But those eyes, they still shine vibrantly. You fidget through the opening act, some new singer you remember passing on for FreeLance. She’s good though, and you regret not signing her. It’s always business first, you think bitterly. And you wonder why you’re such a shell of a man anymore. Hard and bitter, satisfied to go home to an empty house and order take out. The lights finally go down for his performance and you feel the sweat break out in your palms. Two rows back and you can see perfectly. The heart that once beat exclusively for him is racing, longing for another glimpse of him--of the man you once called yours. Pyrotechnics explode and you jump. It’s been a while since you’ve been near the things and it makes you laugh over old memories. Smoke fills the stage and you strain to see him. His voice hits you, stealing the air from your lungs. It’s developed, become even more soulful, and it still sends chills down your spine. Then there he is. A vision--the same but different. His curls are short and brown and he’s wearing black leather pants with a simple white button down. Gone is the outrageous stage gear. The trademark bandanas he loved to wear. The sneakers. It’s suffocating but intriguing. Halfway through the show, a stool is dragged out by a stagehand, and you barely realize you’ve been standing the whole time. He licks his lips and another stagehand places a guitar in his hands. The crowd cheers and whistles, and the girl beside you jumps up with excitement. “This is a song that’s special to me. For so many reasons,” he says as his fingers pluck along the strings. “A song from my past that takes on new meaning now.” You chew on your lip and hold your breath because you have no idea what song it could be. When the chords for “Gone” play, you fall back into your seat and try to catch your breath. ~And when that moment comes at last And you remember who you are Here I'll be, shooting star, shooting star Here I'll be, shooting star, shooting star, shooting star~ It's then his eyes meet yours and you see his face change--his expression rattled momentarily. His fingers stumble for the briefest of seconds before he catches himself. That look--those eyes--they burn into you like stars in the night sky. It’s a struggle to stand, but you do, refusing to glance away. You smile a little, blush, and you notice his eyes are watery. His voice doesn’t falter though, it grows more passionate. The crowd is singing along and you want to tell them to shut up because you’ve never heard him sing this song with so much heart. It’s a connection suddenly from the stage to the seats. He’s luminous and shining, all grown up, living a life that doesn’t include you anymore. You don’t shine, rather you exist, and wish perhaps you could take it all back and hold on a little tighter. The song is over, but he stays on his stool. His eyes are a mixture of sadness and surprise, so you finally look away. It’s too much to take, to see. Sorrow consumes you and you flee through the fans toward the exit. You don’t cry, it’s not something you’re trained to do, but dammit if you don’t feel like breaking down and sobbing. Pressed up against a wall, you hear the show continue and try to regain some sanity. “Excuse me,” someone says and you turn to see a member of his crew standing there. “Would you please follow me?” He must have gotten word, you think, to someone. For one fleeting moment you’re heart soars. You ache to fall back into his arms and recapture all the memories. Make it right somehow. Reconcile where you both went so wrong. “I’m sorry?” you ask, blinking out of the stupor. It’s been four years. You can’t just jump back into his life. He can’t jump into yours. Life doesn’t work like that. You’re a realist--always were. He was the dreamer. “Mr. Timberlake has requested I come find you, sir. Would you please follow me?” The world spins and your vision blurs. It can’t work--you’re too jaded for this now. “I’m sorry,” you say, “I can’t. I have someplace to be.” You wish you could manage to say more. To send a message back to him. You’re gone before you can do any more damage, out of the arena into the cool night air where you try to catch your breath. The depression eats at you and you want to lash out. You want to move backward in time and find the twenty-three year old you used to be--hunt him down and whisper in his ear. Tell him to hang onto Justin, to never let him go. Not even when times get tricky. But you can’t, so you head to your car with tears you don’t want to shed. They might be selfish tears, though. Tears because you have nothing now. On the way home, you stop and pick up the latest BOP with his picture on the cover. He’s never been able to shake that teen idol status which makes you happy because at least you get to see him. Once inside your house you crawl into bed and flip to his picture. He’s on the beach somewhere with his dog. You remember Tortola--the way he held you in the sand. The way you made love all day and night. The shell he found and painted for you. It was the simplest of acts, almost childlike, but you loved that shell. It was a treasure. Sliding under the covers you have time to remember the feel of his lips on yours, the way he felt curled against you at night, the sound of his voice against your ear. A hollow in your heart cries for him so you hide under your pillow and refuse to entertain any more thought of him. It’s easier that way. No man no cry, you think bitterly, recalling song lyrics you sang over and over again in your hey day. A fitful slumber finally steals you away .... *************************** He’s there. You smell him. His fingers stroke your cheek. It’s a cruel joke. You can’t seem to decipher if it’s a dream or reality. *********************** ~And with the spotlight shining in your eyes It's sometimes hard to find your way But maybe some night you might Think of me, shooting star~ You’re alone when you do wake, with birds chirping outside your window and the sun taunting you with hopes of a new day. Lonliness spreads over you and when you head to the kitchen you see a message blinking on your machine. Somehow you know it’s him. Clicking the play button is the hardest thing you’ve ever done because you’re unsure if you want to hear. Your fingertip brushes against the button and you hear him against a raucous background. “Lance! I saw you at the show.” It’s the same voice you etched into your head a million years ago--memories of calls on the road when N Sync existed--little messages he left for you time and time again. “I miss you.” A spear to your heart. You clutch your chest because he sounds a little lost. “I don’t...uh...know. I’m only here tonight then...Shit. I don’t know.” His voice is breaking and you close your eyes. You can see him standing in the hallway of the arena surrounded by crew, ready to get on his tour bus and head for the next city. “....Dallas...” The voice is coming in and out, fading through crackles. “...not perfect...could be wrong but....anyway...” You wish you knew what he was trying to say. The message doesn’t clarify for you--not the second time you hear it, or the tenth time. You debate finding him, it wouldn’t be that hard, and calling him back. Take a plane to Dallas to meet him. But old wounds might open up, you fear, and more pain might pile up. You shower and mull it over, weigh your choices, dream a little of falling back into his arms. Reality sets in eventually, and you sigh heavily before hitting the delete button, erasing the message. Pushing the star back in the spotlight where he can fly solo without worry. * Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me * * Sleeping With The Past *