Born of the same star,
you and I,
cradled in the arms
of a spiral galaxy;
our dreams for  death were

bird, volcano, reef

and we did not go easy—
no soft snap of filament,
or  cosmic campfire left to smolder.

We were spectacular;

but that was a billion years ago.
Now we have no word
for the infinite nostalgia
of those aeons spent sleeping,

no reason we can think of
that every night before we met
felt like a thousand light years, collapsed.