Paging through you,
we picked flowers in the moonlight.
As sun-kissed gardens cooled in the west wind,
we were swept away,
dropped into soft pockets of updrafts,
and lifted lightly over rumbling thunderheads.
Cello breezes ebbed and flowed in sweet harmony,
weaving memoirs to our legacy in their tangled tresses.
Their voices were whisper-quiet,
but we heard every word,
every word,
and tiny, twinkling lights flew beneath us like twisted stars.
Silver leaves and urban boulevards shimmered in the light of the moon,
and I was at home with you in the sky,
if only for a moment I knew we were forever in love
with a distant pulsing star.
"You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star."

Then the volcano exploded,
and the sky turned red with mass panic;
snowy ash fell like ignited matches.
Melted wings,
you fell down, down, down,
and landed with your face parallel to the sky;
you looked at me, a paradoxical reflection.
I swept down to you,
suspended,  staring,
and you rippled under my touch like a distorted mirror.
Hell-fire rain fell in red-hot clusters
and shattered the illusion's delicate surface,
and then the splinters caught the wind.
You were gone,
but I wasn't alone.
"Every atom in our bodies was once part of a star."