When she’s got the moon in her eyes,
don’t leave her. Take her hand and
rub the cold out of it.
When the stars arrive –
their suitcases in hand –
meet them at the door, her skin,
and tell them she can’t
take them in today, sorry.
Space can be so dark, so lonely.
Tighten the one between you and her
until it breaks, snap its neck.
She’s never needed anything
but someone to be there
when everything’s crushing,
and everything’s heavy,
and she’s trying to hold it all
until her arms give out.
She’ll hold the world up for you.
Don’t let her.