issue three / reverie
Starboy
Nida Mubaraki
I wrote a solar
system for you.
What?
How did we find this place?
A bench, a quiet word,
a gesture, and a movie cliche.
Your eyes, the color of weaving
wood branch in pale moonlight,
starlit.
Did you already
know the answer?
Not before you.
I was scared, but even if your voice
was more hellish than honey,
I'd still find a reason to hear the
celestials you sing. Speaking at
night is a vow–
I will always take care of you,
under this sky, in our
cookie-cutter galaxy.
Do I remind
you of anyone?
You are like me.
You are careful, cold, calloused,
as am I – but not with you.
You are an eclipse, exuding light in
the shadows. I script stories to tell
our tales, remembering you and us
and your touch and my laugh.
We are happy here, on this planet.
What does it
mean to love?
I think this is it.
In the car it feels like forever is
tangible and a supernova. Beige
seats are tickets to heaven–
does that make you a saint?
Jazz on the radio, and I’m tired
beyond what I can hear.
I see and I touch you, and I am
here. I am here, for you, by you,
with you.
Does everyone
say goodbye?
I’ve never had to.
I look at the moon and I think
of you. It is both comforting
and deeply saddening that
we share the same moon, but not
the same space. It is both
comforting and deeply confusing
how we are here now but we
won’t be in the next moon.
Do we die with the moon?
I love
you.
I know.
I love you too.
system for you.
What?
How did we find this place?
A bench, a quiet word,
a gesture, and a movie cliche.
Your eyes, the color of weaving
wood branch in pale moonlight,
starlit.
Did you already
know the answer?
Not before you.
I was scared, but even if your voice
was more hellish than honey,
I'd still find a reason to hear the
celestials you sing. Speaking at
night is a vow–
I will always take care of you,
under this sky, in our
cookie-cutter galaxy.
Do I remind
you of anyone?
You are like me.
You are careful, cold, calloused,
as am I – but not with you.
You are an eclipse, exuding light in
the shadows. I script stories to tell
our tales, remembering you and us
and your touch and my laugh.
We are happy here, on this planet.
What does it
mean to love?
I think this is it.
In the car it feels like forever is
tangible and a supernova. Beige
seats are tickets to heaven–
does that make you a saint?
Jazz on the radio, and I’m tired
beyond what I can hear.
I see and I touch you, and I am
here. I am here, for you, by you,
with you.
Does everyone
say goodbye?
I’ve never had to.
I look at the moon and I think
of you. It is both comforting
and deeply saddening that
we share the same moon, but not
the same space. It is both
comforting and deeply confusing
how we are here now but we
won’t be in the next moon.
Do we die with the moon?
I love
you.
I know.
I love you too.
Nida Mubaraki is a New Jersey and Philadelphia based writer. She studies creative writing at Bryn Mawr and has work in/forthcoming in Maudlin House, Bullshit Lit, and Fish Barrel Review, amongst others. She works as the senior editor, Twitter head, and a contributor for The Empty Inkwell Review. Email her at [email protected] or find her on Twitter: @pennedbynida.