New Year’s Eve

by Kate Foley

There were galaxies in your dress.
Maybe it was the way you moved
or maybe it was the way I swallowed the pill
but the cosmos was chaos
and all I could see was the light years between us.

When our eyes were black holes, we danced
in a dirty warehouse in Digbeth
and the whole universe melted and I made out
with an astronaut and you laughed at me
just like you did when you were nineteen.

It didn’t feel like January
but suddenly we stopped sleeping in the same bed.
You cast me to the couch.

At the planetarium, I got so high that stars combusted
underneath me. The solar system gawked
at me as if to say I am simply a fraction of what you need.

Even now with a new year approaching,
I imagine you are Pluto. You’re not
technically a planet anymore
but you are still the farthest away from Earth.

We became eclipsed
and I ached
for every constellation
I used to be a part of.

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