Astrophilia
When mother asked me
what I dreamed of becoming,
I never thought I’d say:
an astronomer.
But here I am:
hair undone, in a wine-blotched slip
tracking you,
the moon around my earth.
I didn’t plan on this, but
I know I’m doomed to be fascinated
by how the nebula behind you quietly blossoms—
It ignites your hair, which I’ve imagined
to be velvet against my fingers.
I will spend my life in awe
of the chartless shades no spectrum dares name—
They bring out the flare in your eyes
when you laugh at the stars’ jokes.
I could get closer—but I won’t.
Astronomers survive by watching from afar.
We chart, not touch.
We name stars we'll never hold.
Closeness ruins, as observed:
the moment the lens becomes a touch—
the stars collapse into lovers’ arms.
I know your colors: forest green on weekdays,
purple when you’re aching for reinvention;
I know the crackle in your voice when
you listen to 80s vinyl alone at 2 a.m.
I collect your habits like constellations—
not mine, but I transcribe them
between my gospel and tears.
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