it’s you and me, and the woman we love,
standing on granite altars,
huddling in the cold around the fire,
one more star without a constellation.
bottle of cheap whiskey,
back and forth,
back and forth.
you and her.
it’s not much,
but something in the back of you knows:
this is as close to loving as you’ll come tonight.
it’s easy to look back the way we came,
but in the darkness there’s nothing to see,
and what-if-will-‘o-the-wisps start pouring from you,
deep-tread-could-steps start lighting up the night.
you know the path,
you know where it crossed your dance partner,
you’ve had that card filled for years,
back-pocket-tucked, kept secret from the full in your hand.
what-if-will-‘o-the-wisps,
little lost stars looking for their constellations.
you and me,
we both know that high-grade-thrill.
find pieces of yourself scatter-strewn in the cracks of someone else,
you start to draw the lines,
and it all makes so much damn sense.
it’s supposed to make sense.
deep-tread-could-steps,
what-if-will-‘o-the-wisps,
you know, you know, deep-set, marrow-deep,
Freelance Whales echoing on repeat,
“we never quite broke that horse”
you still have a dance card,
and there’s still room for that one fate-etched name.
you know the lines,
you’re only half the puzzle,
a star without your constellation.
but you and me, and the woman we love,
we’re standing on granite altars,
huddling in the cold around the fire,
long-gazing at stars upon stars,
–kissing the crown of the forest,
and those lines ain’t anywhere but mind-drawn.
the only etchings on our bones–
are the tree-ring growth of years and scar-buildup.
I know it would mean so much more,
if stars had constellations,
but there’s a sort of freedom-beauty in this too.
