WHAT I KNOW ABOUT SPACE

is emptiness, the needlepoint dusting // of the only stars visible
through the lights of towns // trying to grow into cities. i’m reading
the wikipedia article on binary stars // when you tell me
you believe some things // are meant to happen. some people
are meant to meet, orbits crisscrossing // like the lines
of your palm. we’re minutes apart // and there’s a magic
in this kind of luck. there’s a power, // like sometimes i swear
i could reach into this soil too cold // to understand touch
and come up with fistfuls // of four-leaf clovers, lustrous
in the winter half-light. some people love // as a way of burrowing
deeper into the dark, and maybe // i’m one of them,

but i know where the light // can be found, too. i read once
that writing is always haunted // with absence, but in the hands
of the universe // we’re next to each other, next to your wildfires
and my snowstorms. maybe, before, // we were every other bitter-
mouthed form of weather, or maybe // a pair of binary stars, light
inseparable, here to learn from the earth // and the warm hum
of quiet growth. maybe some things // are meant to happen,
or maybe it all depends // on what we decide afterwards, and

isn’t that its own kind of magic? // the way we choose fabric scraps
to stitch together // into self-made belonging, the way
seeds turn themselves deep within soil // to reach the sun.
we’ve come two years // into the afterwards, and mostly,
i think i’ve been learning // to say love. to understand it,
to mean it. and now we’re back // in our mirrored midwinters, a world
and a country and a matter of minutes // flowing in between.
i know that as time goes by, every season // snips the knots of the last,
and the unravelling becomes // the only kept vow, but one day,

i’m going to bring you // purple flowers. hold me to that promise.

— q.l. | for @femmelovely | in response to @7-weeks‘ january prompt #24