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the ships are aimed at the future; the rockets towards the stars
If he could be dismissive, she could be dismissive. If he could be past it all, onward and upward, looking only forward to the future, so could she. Her list was longer after all, the list of things she wanted to do, all the dreams she knew she'd win. If he could deny wearing her down, concern by concern, convincing her it would be different, she could deny letting down that guard and believing his sincere, if passing, arguments. If he could forget his insistence, the excitement and attention and holding tight, she could forget his grip and his surety. If he could pretend that he didn't lie next to her promising to keep her with him through all new adventures, then she could pretend that certain words hadn't wanted to push from her heart to her lips. If he could grab singlemindedly at the future, believing it purer or better or an easier escape, without looking back or dwelling, so could she.
But she wouldn't. She believed in context. The receding horizon as much as the stars; solid ground as much as the sea.