Being wrapped in stars burns with fire and cold.
It isn’t a punishment. It’s treatment,
transition, more of an apology.
Sitting silent under the heavy rain
that’s our Milky Way, she has half a smile,
and droops with the end of her energies,
washed away in the hard spray of starlight.
She is drenched in rainbows. Not mundane ones
like those we see here, but ones that stretch far
across galaxies, vanish in static
as we come closer, dissolving sweetly.
Colors twist in the epithelium,
draw out nerves like threads, stitch us together
cell by cell, even as she unravels.
It’s impossible to hold onto her.
My hands pass through her as if one of us
studied quantum tunneling or shivers
with ultrafast physics. Let’s simplify.
There are no ghosts here, but we no longer
exist in the same place or time, not even
on the same scale. There was a time, we shared
something. Dancing shadows on a church wall.
Cinnamon and vanilla and oranges.
Planets like dice in our hands. Harmonies.
Something. Then she whispers, and we forgive
everything that is left us to forgive,
and let go of everything except trust.