Astrophilia

When mother asked me what I dreamed of becoming, I never thought I’d say: an astronomer. But here I am: hair undone, in a wine-blotched slip tracking you, the moon around my earth. I didn’t plan on this, but I know I’m doomed to be fascinated by how the nebula behind you quietly blossoms—It ignites your hair, which I’ve imagined to be velvet against my fingers. I will spend my life in awe of the chartless shades no spectrum dares name —They bring out the flare in your eyes when you laugh at the stars’ jokes. I could get closer—but no Astronomers watch from afar We chart, not touch We name stars we'll never hold Closeness ruins, as observed: the moment the lens becomes a touch— the stars collapse into lovers’ arms. I know your colors: forest green on weekdays, purple when you’re aching for reinvention; I know the crackle in your voice when you listen to 80s vinyl alone at 2 a.m. I collect your habits like constellations— not mine, but I transcribe them between my gospel and tears