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.
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 firstname.lastname@example.org or find her on Twitter: @pennedbynida.