We keep looking at the stardust where
the sky is crushed with a pestle,
your skin layered by a punch.
Honey sticks to our teeth;
you’re spitting out bees a second later.
Everything begins to jump out at you.
That night, I dream of tumbling voices
that run out of breath —
I say goodbye in between.
In the morning, you tell me that you feel alive
(in this added, subtracted state)
I admit that my cheek is ruined.
We’ll hollow out the night sky,
make it something lighter and holier
next time. I promise you.