Look backwards.
Time is only a long unspooling of silhouettes of planets & comets & extinction events,
of wept tears & frigid nighttimes,
ghostly imprints of me & you burning
dinners & books,
every sentence-scrap torn out and glued into pages immemorial.

Look backwards.
Dress in that skirt again. Sear your bare legs in the freezing wind for me. Show me
again the band & the music & how you want me
to see them.

Here two figures emerge against the infinite emptiness of our spiraling history,
backlit by starving nebulae and tangled in bedsheets.
Unmade in the dark, they fill their hunger,
legs bared,
skirt nearly forgotten in shadow.