Tonight, the stars spell out our end. We still hold hands,
grasp each other’s cold fingers as the wind picks up,
rising while we fall out of the Heavens surrounded
by billows of our fragmented breaths. We whirl
past centuries of white light, which the Greeks
named Orion and Andromeda for us to study,
though it was Shakespeare who created us,
star-crossed lovers pulled apart by gravity.
I do not want to see your face when we
drop, or taste Sodom’s salt on your lips,
scattered like these constellations
across this night sky. Instead,
all I need from you is a sign
that you truly understand:
if the history books
are indeed correct,
we should listen
to them before
we reach the
iced-over
  earth, so
   let us now
      release  
           and
             spiral
                away
                    as
                        star               
                               d      
                                   u           
                                        s      
                                             t