Starstruck

When I first laid eyes on him, I felt I had been shot through my chest with a silver, piercing, white hot arrow. He was something else. A miracle. I was enthralled yet weakened in my very bones at that thought of his chestnut brown eyes falling upon me.

I was starstruck. Funny. I am a star, yet my light felt so very dim compared to his.

I saw him taking photos of other celebrities and actors, his precise expression of perfection in every shot he took was making him glow like an seraphim. I had on a light blue and white layered gown on, hands on my hips, and I knew my expression was always frosty.

That was my signature look. My movie premiere was astonishingly less than packed as I had hoped, but this year was not as kind on action films as critics pummeled to see the indie art house films. Oh, how I hated art and it’s snooty reminder of its importance to society. I often told others, in interviews, “I don’t make art. I make movies.”

Movies for all, not just those who feel they’re so special and need to created mind-numbing kitsch bullshit.

But he was art. He made me feel special. He made me feel like I could have it all, and all from just laying eyes on him. It’s like I finally figured out what exactly made art so good…

It was love.

But, the court summons came.

The restraining orders locked in.

The headlines stormed in like a stomping boot on my face:

Popular Star From Franchise Stalks Paparazzi

But, I never let my life be halted by limitations. Restrictions and restraints were not on my radar. He was mine. He knew it. I knew it.

I felt him late at night. I felt him early in the morning.

The flashing lights of stardom meant nothing to me. I knew he felt me too.

“Daphne, please, stop this madness,” my husband sobbed to me one night. “I’ve loved you… for so long. He doesn’t even know you,” he cried in a choking voice.

Poor baby. But it wasn’t true.

Starstruck is a fatal disease, one I must live with. He is mine. I am his.

My bones hurt. My heart leaks. My very soul quakes at his beckoning. I know why art hurt me after all this time. It was because I felt a deep, welling hole inside of me that no one could see. He filled it.

I luckily found his house. It was a cinch. I’ll be home soon, my love.

We can share this blushing, violet-red light of stars crashing into melting ice caps and angry mountain-tops.

Our story is one for the movies, baby.