My residences in this state make a star shape.
I’ve surpassed my sisters at last, deft through divorce
and sorrow, mourning and scrimping and packing.
Can I ever scribble out what I said to you?
We’ll move from the curb into my glass garden house.
No more dreams of death now, love, or waking frozen
next to a phantom weight on the pillow.
Guide my hands holding the wine glass to your mouth.
If there were any possible constellations left,
we’d singe our way back into stardust.
— Melissa Sewell