All she ever wanted was to fly into his constellations and become the brightest star.
There, five inches above your rosy skin, is a hand,
a gesture, a hesitation, a tired bird looking for a nest, my hand.
How infinitely close Pluto is to his gold-haired Sun.
How infinitely far you are to my uncertain touch.
Why have we come to this, darling love!
On this cold blue evening we are as close as two stars,
and as far apart as you are in my arms.
I have nothing to give you, my love,
but a jar of my melted laments.
Be still, it’s too hot to touch.
Shapeless sorrows as such
will burn harder than you remember.
Put it up on the shelf, my love,
it will be there forever.
Let’s smile and drink wine today and
let’s not destroy
that remaining sensibility
of the pointed finger.