A constellation of white on black

gather to form a sentence.

He thinks in stars

and lives planets away from her.

She watches as galaxies in his mind translate to paper

and wonders what world she fits into.

The clouds are never a safe place,

but his feet don't seek earth.

He doesn't fear the moon,

he ponders it.

He writes in the night sky

tales about tomorrow

while she questions her place in his yesterday.

While the constellations don't make paragraphs for her,

the whispers of weeping willows

and the oxlips kiss her ankles, begging for her attention.

She only wonders why he's light years away,

and he thinks in stars.

His words like comets, light up her evenings

but to himself he's a black hole.

To her, that isn't right because she looks into his eyes,

looks past the night,

and she sees a universe.

- BPW // May 13, 2016