I still think about you, even now.
Little Star inside Little Galaxy,
surrounded by sinew and bone and space.
I remember the towel, and the drops of water
Hanging from skin like light and heat.
I remember the glow from the screen,
and the perfect butter yellow of the notepad.
I remember terror, and grief.
I remember awkward walking and brief stabs of pain.
I still think about you, once in a while.
Little Bullet, inside Great Big Gun,
ricocheting off the metal and passion and chance.
You destroyed and cemented the connection.
For that I am still grateful, and still reeling.