heather uses the travel-sized paint set,
because she is, in fact, traveling.
and heather paints her nails, mindlessly
washing the blue back into our fractured universe,
this microcosm that we’ve built in the bed of my truck.
we are slow-tumbling planets:
all out of orbit.
all sucking in the black and the salt
like deep sea fish with no eyes. only incandescence and
scales that peel down like oranges.
we are soft and selfish beneath this roof,
an open, burning sky of queens
in quiet arcs of light. and all the sadness of
forgotten Greek heroes.
those luminous, painted bodies that
we’ve trapped above us.
celestial, we recoil
our very own