I spend days
               months
               weeks
at a time
conjuring up adventures
for us to go on,
ways for us to travel
to every city in the world,
just so I can be seen
in all of them
with my hand
in yours.

I look up in the sky
at night
and follow the galaxies,
but tonight
I found
that the star
I continually followed North
was you.

Under the Auroras,
beneath the nebulas,
behind the stars
-- you can find me next to you,
-- gazing --
falling asleep in your arms.

I do not need
cars,
planes,
trains,
or buses;

I need neither
passports,
tickets,
maps,
nor directions

to tell me that
I would run around the world
with only
a cup of coffee
and you.

You
wrapped
a constellation
around my finger;

in harmony,
told me
that
you loved me.

Now,
we wear
our wedding rings
molded out of
comets,
meteorites,
and asteroids

-- fragile enough
to accommodate
our fingers
but,
strong enough

to
ablated, choose

to
         fall
                  down
                                to
                                       Earth.

I may know
the exact rate of a light-year,
how the stars form galaxies,
and the physics of the universe.

I may understand
the artful ways of a supernova,
the beautiful end to the life of a star,
or the science behind planetary movement,

but not,
              -- the alignment the physics
              the chemistry
              the eclipses
              the Hubble
              Andromeda
              and Triangulum –

not any of it
can match
the feeling of your hand
in mine.

I once knew a Dandelion:
she knew strange stories
and wore large sweaters
—too big for her frame,
that overcame her bones,
and hid her petals from the world.
I often found her hunched over the bowl
full of smoke and mirrors,
for her skin told her lies about herself—
never admitted her bones were falling apart,
or that she was flushing away her veins,
weakening her heart
until all her seeds and wishes and pappus were gone.