by Abigail Parlier
Artwork by W. Jack Savage
Your meteorite belt
slips around my waist
in the form of a lone arm
that’s flung across my body
in the middle of the night
to make sure I’m still there
while you sleep.
I choke on your solar system
and cough up your planets
as you fill my lungs
with your absence of air
and a couple of black holes,
sending me into a supernova
because
I’ve never tasted anything
like your tongue.
Galaxies swim through
your bloodstream
and your veins look
as if they’re filled with
glitter and sand
because that’s what
I imagine space is made of,
even though
I’ve never been there.
I’m not sure where you end
because your universe
keeps expanding
and I am caught
in a vacuum with no lifeline,
floating in your atmosphere,
hoping I make it home.