I punched the volume ****
like Tyson and Holyfield,
plunged us into silence,
our heads swimming in
phantom sounds.
The sun was a muffled glare,
but you squinted at me
and broke the silent virginity
with a cough.

The planet whirled
like an exotic dancer,
stars screamed how beautiful they are,
but were outmatched by our sun
just because of how
close it is.

The stars never go away.
Not really.
We just stop expecting them to be there.

We sat still.

And me, with all my
hypodermic words
unable to scratch the surface.

And you, with all your
delicate features
unable to soften the blow.

Because at night, we exchange
one star for millions,
though none of them
can keep us warm,
and all we want
is to see where we're going.