we three sit in syzygy

picking faults

parsing each sentence

you, the celestial centre

serene when seen from space

but roiling and folding on the surface

violent and beautiful

under heavy layers of make up

mascara landslides and fuck me red lips

me, the interloper

a mere satellite to your turbulent beauty

hoping your gravitational pull

will hook me in

and like two graceful dancers

bathed in the light of an eternal dawn

we will spin and glide together

an elliptical ballet filled with passion

then him, the meteorite

the fucking traitor

the reason we lie so low

poured from trembling hands

into chipped glasses

plotting a course between the two of us

smashing right into your throat

and by three a.m you are again beyond hope

your light blocked totally by the bottle

and me, lying on the bed

staring at the eclipse

dreaming of a clearer sky