stargazing

Look at the constellations.

The man squints into the sky;

the stars are losing their brilliance.

The young girl squeezes his shaking hand,

the fragility of the brittle bones

between her strong fingers.

Look at the constellations.

The angry red pockmarks

covering the soft white flesh of his left arm.

He slackens his grip in the leather thong,

the blood rushes to his thin, shaking fingers.

His eyes roll back into the squalid embrace of the floor.

Look at the constealtions.

Two shadows on the slope of a hillside;

a comfortable absolute silence.

A quivering hand reaches for the soft touch of flesh; 

a pause.

Two lips breathe a new embrace.

       How bright the stars do shine.