It was as if she were a comet,
then he,
then she,
on and on, orbiting
faster and faster,
first gathering ice, then burning
it away by veering close
to the sun.
First he,
then she,
then up for grabs.
Neither chose to be
a comet. Certainly
not a pair.
What, and be content
to find pieces of oneself
flying into ether
while others loosen
from their moorings?
Admit the stratosphere
made him tingle,
and her.
Hot what she wanted,
and he.
To fly at supersonic,
nay, supernatural,
speed.
If not melt and join,
come dangerously
close to touching
the untouched
in her,
in him.
Skin sloughs, tough.
Flew, didn’t we?
People gasped
as they looked up.
Now what little’s left
has hardened
or shattered, perhaps
beyond repair.
Ah, well, sighs,
she, sighs he,
got to feel
the high.

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(c) Phyllis Jean Green, 2008
A l l Rights Reserved