Apogee
With you, pillow talk means
lox lines and external
fuel tanks. I have only the vaguest
notion of what these are. On hot
August nights, you try
to trace constellations, but stars
dance past my eyes. I put out
my tongue because I dreamed
I could catch them
like powdered sugar, tingeing
my saliva with sweetness. And now,
each night I lie
beside you, and I know there is more
than plasma and planetary dust
in the vacuum between our bodies.
You roll over and mutter
about O-rings and heat tiles.