I am a dandelion in the hand of a child. I haven’t the heart to tell her that I’m a **** and not a wildflower. So I don’t.
The stars are always aligned but I can’t always see them properly. When the light is low and the moon is new I can show you what Orion’s arm is pointing to, a little cluster like us that hardly exists.
My mother used to tell me that my hands would be too clammy to be held by anyone else but she wasn’t counting on you.
Our fingers are woven tight enough that I feel safe looking up- we can take the constellations in turns, you first, so that if the toe of your boot catches a ***** in the asphalt where moss is growing through I can steady you.
And you would do the same for me.
The earth is so young. There will be time enough for me to take you to the observatory, to see properly how Orion stands ready to catch the Pleiades. We can watch it till sunrise, fingers intertwined, blinking sleep from our eyes as the sun blinks the stars from its skies, thinking: that is you and I