We had met, as constellations meet.
Every night, clouds or naught.
He: Orion.
I: Ursa Major.
I shown more brightly, but he was clearly more identifiable.
Under the cloudless strobe light of a bar bespeckled by urns of ash and ashtrays overfloweth, we were dancing.
Stars once still with worlds rotating around us, we reversed the polarity of an entire universe.
I, in utter disbelief, found a quasar of confidence.
It shot through me, drawing and quartering me standing up and cognizant.
If not for the whiskey this all might have hurt.
When through the penumbra of countless waste galaxies he out his arm around my shoulder.
The room became white hot heat.
I catalogued every flaw on my person: back hair angel wings, Jew nose, gullet full of cheap beer and self-loathing, and job complete with curfew at nearly 30.
When the sun began knocking on the stage door, we collected our garments and made for the inn.
We were staying in different rooms, but he made room for me.
Not just in his bed, but also in his heart.
I lay in both, remembering how glamorous I felt to be a celestial sensation.
Now, I wax and wane against the metallic tumult of our new bed, alternating between the smoothness of one another's skin, back to front and back again.
I'm dizzy just thinking about it.
I'm steadied knowing it to be real.
