It was the middle of the night when the power went out.
My body
accustomed to an ambient electrical hum
refused sleep.
I got up, and you followed
just like always.
We walked to the top of the hill where we lived
at the time
We've moved four times since that night.
We walked,
your collar's gentle sonance
conflicting with the silence.
When we reached the peak
we stood,
our small world lit only by the moon.
We beheld the great expanse
of the shy quiet stars
that usually hid behind the light pollution.
The milky spill of a spiral galaxy,
where we lay spinning on its periphery,
backlit the countless trails of fire courtesy of the Perseids.
And I thought
there have been more nights without street lights
than nights of human history.
These flaming trails of ice and dust,
these remnants of comets,
would exist despite those of us lucky enough
to bear witness
that night the power went out.