Because I thought you would love holding the sun,
I wore that dress: slippery and liquid gold. Someone
told me I looked like a Spice Girl, a senior prom
compliment. I didn’t know then that I longed to wear

the blue moon like a sarong, that I preferred bare
feet to those Novocain stilettos.  On the balcony,
I imagine the stars are tired of telling fortunes
in circles, I find Orion lying face down, kissing

the horizon.  We hang each other like starving
constellations, make up myths to finish the story,
this story, which is as over as anything can really
be, a betrayal and a promise, a healed comet.