by Abigail Parlier

Artwork by W. Jack Savage

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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.