The cliché: we are stardust.
Remnants of a supernova
Trapped underneath our fingernails,
And the tectonic fingernail itself.
I cough out a cloud of dust and gas and wonder
When I will collapse.
But I already have,
Many times over.
My tongue is the second chance
Of something that imploded before the sun was born,
Something that swallowed itself up,
Choked itself out again with my dry throat,
Just so I can drink it back down
With over-honeyed tea.
We sip and our feet share a blanket,
And I know I have found us again.
Not the covenant’s blood
Or the water’s womb
But a cosmic closeness,
More gravity than history.
My body catches glimpses of who we used to be
Before I bleached your hair in the bathroom.
Before you wrote about me in your journal,
Before I pitched the tent around you,
Before you thanked me for taking out the compost,
Before I called you holding discharge papers,
Before you kissed the other girl.
Before I smeared campfire ashes on your forehead,
Before you led me to the front of the venue,
Before I told you I might love you,
Before the love grew up.
Before you and I shared a bedroom wall,
We shared the same supernova,
Seven, eight billion years ago.
Yet still I flinch when you reach over to touch me,
Even if I know in my blood and bones
That we used to be a body together.
Maybe we will have to collapse
Many times over,
Before I and You are We enough
To be blown away in the same gust again.
