Under many different phases of my being, I have looked into the stars and wondered whether the blanket pulled over our existence is a construction sheet with poked holes, or just a whole lot of white we can’t see (all of). I’ve looked at the stars like they are things that haven’t changed or haven’t moved, even while they are out there orbiting, collecting, and changing in size; combusting into life and exploding into death just as we are down here; thinking ourselves birds, or otherwise still humans floating looking down into deepest seas. And even then, we —the stars and I—would look at each other from a great distance and laugh at one another’s perspective.
I wonder if the Milky Way knows we have the same taste in men.
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