I never cared for astronomy,
he says,
unabashed by her dubious eyebrows.
It's too big. Too...much. I much
preferred the microbes
to the stars.

Her gaze clings to the constellations
the galaxies
the suns pulsating
singing at different frequencies.

She sings of them
to herself
not to him
in a voice breathless and halting
in awe.

Oh!
the lightning veined skies.
How freeing it is to be
creation,
not creator.
To be the beloved,
small thing.

Beneath they stand
the electric crown of thorns
throbbing arcs of mercury
striking spurs of white hot fire.

Let my lungs fill
with wet, warm air I did not measure.

The thunder drums
from one end of sky to the other
rolling the palpitation of her heart.

We are fleeting, yet
we are eternal.

And she would forget the ***** of gravel on her feet
and that he was watching
and the breath of storm on her bare legs
and the smell of soaked stones
and the sparks of rain
on her lenses.

But he would not.

Here's the thing,
he says softly, in
an unwhisper, because
he doesn't know how to be quiet.

I've always known I was smart
but being with you
has made me
wise.