shitty

"but it's something about

the names of stars, you know?"

I am pressuring him

to be excited; he is not

excited

but he smiles.

half-bare bushes, the heavy sweetness of dying flowers.

this was ours, once

this strange little garden,

in july of 2001.

I lift my hand

to trace orion;

he traces the bones in my wrist.

he pulls me to him,

blades of grass scratching my cheek

I'm still searching for the pleiades

as his mouth opens.

he is pressuring me

to be excited;

I am not excited

but I smile.