Her hands are worn from walking the Earths and
Moving stars in the dead of night.
She wears rings for utility and because
She likes their sheen.
They are scraped and ephemeral
But still vivid.
She cups some moonlight in her hands,
Allowing it to dance around before
She tosses it for me to catch.
I do, barely, and let loose a cutting retort.
She matches it easily with an obscene gesture.
The room is empty, but not absolutely.
Light flickers in the center as we gaze
Out, into wide windows,
Open jaws bearing the brunt of space.
I see the stars
Flecks in the Engine’s teeth.
I want to ask her how long it’s been, and
How long it will be before our knuckles brush once more
In a fist bump.
I want to ask if she’s okay. If she’s okay without him.
She smiles sadly at me.
I know she sees the questions in my
Eyes, I know because I see them in hers.
“We’ll be okay,” she says.
I suspect the truth is less kind.