Once
   every few
thousand years,
    a comet
fades into view
     at an hour some call
“unholy”.

It hangs
   out of place,
not a moon and not
   quite a star,
a wisp of incandescence
I never saw.

We talked
   for light-years
over soup,
    word-danced
on an empty rooftop.

The glow remains,
    no matter how far
apart we orbit
   through cold and godless
space,
   past new worlds
      we’ll never know.