Direction

Polaris was the true north of the seas and the desert, the hope that shone when sought for, that twinkled in the name of the stars. It was a beauty of sorts, telling of time and futures, preferable for the lost, the melancholy, or the visionaries.

The compass was steel-- needlepoints engineered to align with a magnetic field. Resolute in its findings, unwavering in direction, reliable and preferable for those with strong resolve and minds steely as the material it is composed of.

Lifetimes and light waves apart, touching only in thought and vague purpose, maybe in certain comprehension- but never eye to eye.
Only flickering in focus, or so distant that dreams must suffice.

History will call them strangers. Nobody, anything more. And in truth, they were neither.

Polaris found, that instead of being wished upon, reached for--
She was the one by winter's solstice, wishing upon something foreign beyond measure, hoping upon hope for direction, in the system of stars, more labyrinthine, even, than the largest of deserts.