Electric spark seething, gas stove leaking, dial emergency hotline, radio silence, hang up, I'm fine.
We have take-off.
Confined at the exhaustive edge of a panic attack,
I trail the menstrually-stained duvet I bought for us at Ikea behind my trembling heels
as I arrive to stand over you in the living room
and watch you sleep on the International Orange love seat
your mother gave us when we moved in together.
It hurts to think you loved and lusted before our universe came to be,
the flame lit under my lungs reigning supreme
over the way you look at me every day, if only for a moment.
I turn off the harsh florescents
casting unfriendly shadows
from the back of my head
and revolve innumerable times
as I lie helpless in your pull,
a gravitational force luring me
to softly run my fingertips
across the nape of your neck,
where the hair I helped shave off last week is beginning to sprout up again, bristling.
I drop to my knees, dumbfounded by the duality of this moment, our togetherness permeated
by an occasional snore indicating that you still sleep in peace
while I agonize that you would ever stop loving me,
the NASA documentary we watched before you dozed off
overriding our perfect display of domestic tranquility with

CHALLENGER,
COLUMBIA,
APOLLO ONE.