when it believes it will never die. How we think
the moon will never fall back around. How we ease
time between us like a glove off Orion’s hand. Look―
even a black hole looks like two stars they can’t match to a god.
The first time I heard a quasar was to hear the clock counting heartbeats
and then why did you count them on your skin?
Two girls trying to know each other by the joining of their hands sounds
like something they will never know through telescopes.
there is so much hollow in the way our fingers touch. And here,
the streak across the stars that we thought had all the answers. We asked it
to be our miracle, heard it breathing. I didn’t know
that was the wish you never got. And there,
we found it: the place where they theorized the universe was lonely
because it was your voice that wandered off the walls. That is what
they call comet. The way the horizon whispers
when we have halfclosed ourselves to sleep. The way I went
to my knees two days later when I heard the world fall,
two years later I rise enough to hear it collapsing out.
I swear somewhere these voices know you by name. I swear
I hear you searching. I swear I hear your heart in radio waves.
Kaylee Jeong is a high school poet from Portland, Oregon who is still trying to know her way with words. Her work has been featured in the Rising Phoenix Review.