Written by Callie Cheng
Art by Yaroslav Shuraev
Don’t tell me that you didn’t like the view—
Your back on mine, on hers, her concrete spine,
Dusk-spun dust she blew in soft breaths of hue,
Against crystalline, many sky-stones rhine.
I tell you that I like those specks that strike
The eye, like you, on me, on you. As dawn
Would see it, a star, hikes you, orchestral, brass-like,
Through ebony, the dark falls of me, in noir-strokes drawn.
So sit on concrete, sit lonely and sweet,
Sit on black as I sit, in lines white that fit,
Optical deceit to your light’s blinking tweet,
Sipping stars blown to bits by the cold’s scream split.
You’ve run out of fuel and now palm through my pools,
That suck black from your white, ’til the skies, they might,
Come bottle our jewels, in glass made ampoules,
Keep you from my night, and me from your light.
Don’t dial away, our escape is futile.
When Newton spoke, he but outlined our yolk;
While gravity smiles on our denial, we’ll be here for a while,
So why stoke the fire? Why fight it? Why choke?
Oh we’re captives, can’t you see? For as long as we live,
The tableau of my nothing makes your light, everything,
Like a humour in their archive. They smile and give
—us, reflected in the eye’s outer ring, fated, bound by their strings.
Is it worth it to ask why we’re sentenced to the skies,
When you can chew it up, swallow, spit it out hollow?
So that goodbye will suffice, your heart when it dies,
It’s all I ask, that with me you wallow before you do go,
Perhaps we were forced, perhaps we’re coerced,
But hush, let us sleep and rest where the pavement is cheap,
I don’t care about the course of our fate’s divorce,
And neither should you keep such frown-lines so deep:
Mercy is my gasoline that sullies your pristine
White, golden glorious shining magnanimous,
Mercy is that I’ve seen, and down the path of “we” been.
Oh in the saga of us, what more can I ask,
But for you to stargaze with me, my stellar stargirl?
The cars have all left, it’s now our world.