Think of the constellations—

Yankee candles and their geometrics. 

Their flickers at funny angles, 

too removed from our mouths 

to be hampered by our giggling. 

Our spit doesn’t go that far. 


Think of the constellations—

Don’t think of the stars, 

think of the sew lines between them. 

Sweater threads, 

loose and frayed, 

but looping each amber spec,

knotting their form to its gauze, to each other. 

Buttons across charcoal cotton. 

They warm us on November nights. 


Think of—


candles and buttons, 

giggles and borrowed sweaters, 

chilly toes and funny angles. 

We sit on the in-between lines, 

our legs swinging between constellations 

unbothered by the winds back on Earth.