Across the sky,
higher than the clouds,
even above the stratosphere 
where the moon is but a memory,
where the sun is but a pinhole,
that is where you live.

You call, plaintive and mewing,
like a dog, wet and wordless
shivering under the front stoop,

and her heart beats fast,
chest burns,
eyes blur,
salt ducks spit drops
that navigate fine fur on her cheek.

You cry out believing
that she will come,
find you rocking back-and-forth,
arms wrapped tight,
chin resting on chest

plucking strings
than sing the songs
of the constellations,
those tragedies etched
in stars and memories,
shooting out petty dramas
that we forever play
over and over again.