Vega

I saw a singular star that

reminded me of you.

It stood alone and had

a name like Vega,

but I called it by yours

and laughed to myself

—the silence,

the solitude,

the lassitude

that made me not move.

And when I mustered the energy

to roll on my side,

I ran my fingers through the grass,

closed my eyes,

and cursed the star that was

miles and miles

away.

I thought of all I had done wrong

— damned for sure,

and let myself sink into the earth

while mosquitos sipped on my

whiskey blood and bare feet

became dirty and numb.

Vega stood there

—just out of reach,

so I pointed and stared

like a marveled child

and missed you so.

When it fell,

I wished to bend the atmosphere

to my will,

my whim,

and dim Vega when

it became too bright or too brittle

when it decided to fall again.

But the star stood still and silent,

made me small and pressed against

the earth that swallowed me whole.

And Vega watched me wish,

want, become jealous and scornful

with each passing hour;

forgetful of the sun

that would wash it away

by dawn.

So I mourned and I missed

and I howled and I grieved,

and I cursed the star that had your name

from miles and miles

away.

But I knew I would see Vega again,

so I bit my tongue and pressed my lips,

and pointed a finger at the

sight that had turned me to

dust.