Personal Space

He said that I am made
from stardust,
that I could have
comets behind my eyelids

and that asteroids,
they do as they must.
They bring us gifts

down the Milky Way and
straight to your navel;
thought I had your Suns
all mapped out on the table

but gravity pulls
and I am like a wormhole –
unstable.

So put galaxies between us,
a trail of gas clouds
neither one can chase
to an alternate reality of
personal space.
The trace of us
sucked into a vacuum
of opaque nothingness;

a dress to cover the moon
as she waters me whole,
as the morning looms.

Until the great boom
and I finally become.