hooves of fire crisp the moss of the darkened moors and 

the sky isn't falling, it's just skin, stretched and starred, crackling 

overhead. we exist in a cloak made of prescriptions, little yellowed 

notes telling us where to be and who to smile at. in svalbard, i watch 

the northern lights, a neon bruise on the tiny patch of infinity that 

splits atoms above my head. chip away the cosmic barnacles that 

cling to the vast, ethereal scrimshaw we call life and all that’s left is 

you and me and the saliva that passes between our lips when we kiss.