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.