she's drawing constellations (brand new ones, all ours) all across my neck and my jaw and my shoulders, little sparkling trails of stars left in the wake of her fingers. she's the kind of person that could do that. the kind of person that could put new stars in the sky -- give them names, give them stories. maybe she's tracing us, like this, wound into one another. maybe she'd call it "the collapse of the vacuum" or "divine intervention." the prettiest ends for everything.
— The End —