The truth is, my love does not, after all,
await me in a different world. All those nights

looking up didn't pull him closer, as there was
never anything to pull to begin with. The planets

wheeled along their given orbits, tethered snugly;
bodies unwilling to cut the grapnel, a beautiful order

and quiet dance. Stars kept exploding as I waited
for me to be beautiful. Stars hot and menacing.

Each movement a wager to rupture the fabric of time.
Maybe it is not that I'm made of stars, as the saying goes.

Perhaps nothing relates me to it.
Sadly.

But its chaos is my forward.
Its tails are my wishes.

Starburn plasma, galactic spasm,
why does starlight show me boys I can't fathom.

The neighbour is looking through his telescope
now, unbuttoning his shirt, snatching moments

to take swigs of cola. I wish I could be him.
Live in his mouth. Take his voice. And stay

quiet forever, or as long as it takes for stars
to swallow nearby stars. If that's even how it works.