We watch the night sky, safe under its lights, reading a language of the night. Our hands fumble, circle as if in orbit, landing inside each other’s magnetic field.
We whisper to one another in a planet’s dialect, built by a syntax of suns, stanzas that play between solar winds and the ultraviolet, poetry of passion and reaction.
And upon summers like this one, many readers like us have lain and will lie in the quiet, underling quotes of hot stars in a sticky cluster, a mingling of gravity and motion.
Even at this remote position, far out on a limb of a galaxy, we know the shape of light, its means of flicker.
We accept that light is a fallible hydrogen, a spinning of stories, fiction, changing faster than longing, where denouements appear daily and relationships serve as catharsis.
Our simple act is a holding of hands, a close reading of one another, which may last for a second or for an entire space time continuum.
Our bodies move closer, clumsy, as if forever threatens to do away with us. We touch before daylight strips away our nakedness.
That’s when I let you kiss me.
I laugh with the universe in my lips.
