The stars are cold. When we think of them
they burn but they burn where it is so cold.
When we think of them it does not warm them;
when we think of them at all. Alone on the table
I wait for something to happen. Dwarfed by
the plastic flower arrangement, I stare
at the lightbulb sun against the semi-gloss sky
and shiver. When I think of you I feel warmer.
Does it reach you? I am your moon
dreaming of a straight line through you.
When you curl your hand around me,
does it warm you? When you think of me do I burn?