Last night, I made love to a star. Pristine,
the sky. Blustery. I climbed
a staircase of wind from my window
to soft-step across
the ozone's crumbling balcony.
She was draped in eon's
old light, picking the bones
of cosmonauts from her braids.
I knelt, hugged her
midsection, pressed my cheek
over her belly's cool plane.
Though barren, she was motherly
in that moment before she unwrapped
the luminance from her shoulders,
and we fumbled for each other
in the cherry darkness.
Through sleep, I reached for the pen, paused:
another poem, another phantom longing.
What will critics think of these
once I'm gone. That I was hijacked
by the carnal, blood thin with youth?
No, it's that I fall in love with people
so far from the ground beneath me
I feel the span as measurable
only in light and years.
--Kyle Dargan
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