won't save Nine
because her seams have already split.
And anyways,
I saw Nine last week,
she whirled herself off the side of a cliff.
I watched her spin like a pink petal,
severed from bloom by breeze.
She hit the ground crying, a bit broken,
but alright.
Now, she sleeps at the base of a dark hill
tucked in the husk of a rusted sedan.
Nights, she stares at asterisms,
moons, smoke-sagged galaxies.
She thinks of dead light,
long journeys,
and how it is different to be a moon
than a star.