Stars are drawn in the exact shape I love you –
to the moon and back, going a distance like Santa’s sleigh
making the rounds every black sequence,
the Earth does not cease rotation, so stars do not blink
or forget to twinkle when God does not shovel dark clouds:
pillows of snow that have been urinated in,
still fresh beyond the membrane of something grey.

I do not mind if you call that ugly.
I understand if my rural nights are frightening to you –
they were to me at first, they did not feel like
a time, rather the absence of
and I do not mind if my poems feel that way sometimes.

I write this because the evening never stops –
five o’clock somewhere and midnights too, which we pale
by blonde stars, the hair color of mine you despised
resurrected. Never stopping as you and I do not.

My ex-girlfriend bought me a star once,
though I did not know you then, it was still our shape
the contour of your hair clogged in my bathtub
the blue moods of mine dyed purple, almost lilac by you –
I think of how her ******* got in the way when
I tried to listen to her heartbeat
but yours is always there, never stopping like stars
never blinking in the exact shape I will always love you.