I love the stars
not because they are bright,
possibly because they are far
(farther than I can comprehend the measure),
but mostly because they make me feel small
and small things are unimportant and free
I love you
not because you are beautiful,
possibly because you are sharp
(with words and thoughts sharper than I can hold with soft skin),
but mostly because you are separate from me
and separate things maintain their identities
Some nights I wake up and think
oh gods, could I love you more than I love the stars?
How could I know that?
Could I love you more than Betelgeuse or Kastra?
I’ve never studied them like I’ve studied your face
I’ve never been to them like I’ve been to the hollows
your clavicles make
Some nights I wake up and reach
over to the hollow where you usually sleep
and find it empty.