The sun is not in love with the moon (she says), reaching for the edges of his hair as it trails down his skin as it trails with the wind as it trails off into the misted atmosphere. The sun, she says, is in love with the stars on your fingernails as they scrape against the bark of the flaking oak tree. She is in love with the way you move against the wind, like you are the inevitability of nature, or a mountain, or a rusted engine snorting out musty smoke. They stand quietly in the field, like the sound the air makes when the sun filters into the cracks between the dust particles in your room at 3:00 pm on a Sunday and the TV’s off but you can still hear the whine of the electronics in your ears.
And the stars move in circles until the hand twists open the bottle cap sky and all the things they’re made of liquefy and stretch out to fill the spaces between the galaxies, filtering in like the sunlight does. You watch them walk along the sidewalk, under the dim streetlights next to the cheap dead end restaurants, yells and murmurs punching out their doors. The air smells like ozone and cigarette fumes, and rain is slithering down the sidewalk into the slick gutter.