Constellation 73
An eye looks down from the Andromeda void,
threading a needle with silver starlight.
It sews your hand into mine,
a pattern on a tapestry that screams in neon.
We were charted before we had shadows.
I remember the ink of destiny
spilled upon the zodiac’s table,
where fish learned to fly in sapphire air.
Your eyes are two planets navigating my skin,
a collision written in atomic dust.
If you peel back the skin of the midnight sky,
you will find the ink is still wet.
Your laughter is a supernova,
a sudden punctuation mark,
making everything we do…
simply inevitable.
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