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?